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sameschmidtdiffname · 9 months ago

Note

hai i have a request for a mike fic, so i was thinking of a comfort/hurt type of thing and maybe like a “i didn’t know where else to go” kind of trope where reader shows up to his house in the middle of the night distressed and he comforts her

To All I Think is Safe

Mike Schmidt x Gender Neutral! Reader

Summery: After a family dinner gone awry, something guides you somewhere where your mind can safely wander in better memories than the ones you're making right now.

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific pronouns for Reader, mentions of arguments, heavy disassociation, heavy nosebleeding, flashbacks, first kiss, date, fear of heights, fair date, author is fucking trying, fluff.

Notes: I think my bosses want me dead. Anyway, here's Wonderwall.

▪︎◇{¤♧■♧¤}◇▪︎

I can handle family. Who can't handle family?

The part of me knocking on the green door illuminated only by the orange streetlight a few yards away, trying to peak through one of the three window slots on the door to see if there's any sign of life inside of the modest house, praying that there is out of selfish desperation. That's who.

I hadn't called. Hadn't given notice. I'd been too caught up in the emotions of myself to do so, worried I'd be turned away if I had. The thought makes me feel ill now, my mind chastising me for such a self interested act.

For a moment I almost turn to leave, sure that no one is awake and that I've simply wasted the gas in the trip over here. But at the loud clunk of the door unlocking, I feel my heart jump and sink simultaneously as Mike peaks his head through the crack in the door, bags under his eyes and hair tossled from sleep.

"Hey," he croaked, blinking away the sleep as his tired face managed a look of surprise.

"Hey," I said softly, trying not to let my voice crack. But it does. "Is this a bad time?"

I don't know what gives my state away. Maybe it's how swollen my face is, puffy and burning from the overexposure to salt water. I can already feel the skin on my eyes balloning in a disastrously unattractive manner. Maybe it's the snot that's still on my face even after trying desperately to wipe it away, my problem being I'd run out of napkins in my car some time ago and hadn't replaced them, so I'd been resorted to just trying my best to sniff back the snot or use the arm of my jacket, which is now soaked and covered by my hand to conceal it, to wipe it away. God, it's fucking sticky and I feel gross. I don't understand why the snot won't just stop fucking flowing.

"Shit, you're bleeding," Mike says. His eyes widen as he steps forward, instantly dragging me into the house, down the hall and into the bathroom.

Oh. That's why my head hurts.

The white light is blinding and overstimulating in the small, disorganized room. One glance in the mirror and I can see the bottom half of my face is grossly smeared in the snot-blood combo running from my nose, my eyes bloodshot and more dry than a British comedy from all of the tears. I stare at myself for a moment, hardly even realizing Mike is yanking my coat off of me, stroking my hair and trying to ask me questions about what happened. I can hear his voice but the words are muffled, and even though my eyes are staring at him now, I don't know when I turned to face him or what I'm really looking at. I'm just staring at anything. My mother used to call it 'staring off into space.' It's actually a disassociation episode. The kind that can make me lose myself in other thoughts, making me distant from reality where I assume the worst of things.

I'm rational enough to know not to lean into him. If I throw myself into his arms I'll smear my shit everywhere and then he'll be grossed out and will have to play nice after I interrupted his sleep to beg for comfort that should come easily enough from my aforementioned mother, but clearly I'm adult enough now that I don't need coddling and I shouldn't have driven here and-

Am I saying this out loud? Because my mouth is moving and I'm trying to say something but I'll be honest, my head is in disarray and Mike looks worried. Me too, buddy. Me too.

My hands try to help his find a wash cloth in his closet, trying to be useful, but they're covered in snot and blood too and it's dried and horrid looking and I just feel like some sticky toddler that's wailing over nothing because that's what I'm doing, and I'm trying not to dissolve into a new wave of tears because my eyes really, really hurt and I'm gonna end up hiccuping and sobbing and I shouldn't even be here right now.

Mike's hands wrap around mine and he's trying to pull me somewhere. But he won't get out of my way, tugging me forward and blocking me like it's some game. Then I realize it's him he's trying to drag me to, and I try to push away, not wanting to get him dirty or let him fulfill some duty of pity just because he feels obligated seeing me in such a state. He's touching my hair and there's snot in that too and this is all just entirely too much, making me burst out sobbing once more as I try to hide my face in my arm, feeling all too vulnerable and alone while in a house that's not mine in any way, shape or form. But his arms feel nice around me, and he's guiding me to the bathtub and helping me lay down inside of it. When he pulls away I'm paranoid for a second that he'll turn the shower head on and wash me like a drunk, especially when he reaches for the shower handles. He presses a clean, white cloth to the spout and let's just a little bit of water out to wet the washcloth before turning the water off and coming closer to me, dabbing and wiping gently at the drying mixture on my face.

There's a long while of silence. Him carefully washing me, his touch gentle and caring as I feel the wet glumps with dried crusts fade away. The pounding in my head begins to dull to an overwhelming ache, making me shut my eyes as I softly groan. When I think he's done I dare peaking at him from under my lashes, trying to read his mind. His brows are furrowed, probably in disgust. Lips pressed together as he sits on the balls of his heels,, watching me carefully. Most likely he'll let me sleep on the couch and then kick me out in the morning. I'll be lucky if I get the "We should see other people" speech. I wouldn't blame him if my calls just couldn't connect when I get home, leaving me to wonder what could've been if I hadn't been so selfish.

I don't even know the time for fucks sake.

"I'm not crazy," I say in this broken voice that only a crazy person would have.

I don't know what's funny, but he's laughing. His hand reaches out to stroke my cheek, and he feels so warm. His callouses have this smooth texture to them. Working hands. It's the first thing I noticed when we held hands the first time. It was at some carnival thing, and Abby was with us. It was sweet under those neon lights. The rides always look so cheap, but there's something enchanting in that. It's what I focus on now as my mind finally begins to relax, allowing me the guilty pleasure of mentally slipping away into an actual memory instead of just static filling my mind and drowning everything else out unpleasantly.

"I know," Mike says softly, his thumb stroking the raw skin under my eye as he watches me with a gentle smile, one probably meant to hide his contempt. "You're okay."

The rides had these giant speakers built into them. And the workers would play songs from them, loud enough it was blaring in your ear on the ride but it was a reasonable volume when you were just walking around on the wet, overgrown and matted grass that curls around the giant cables Mike and I both had to be irritating about reminding Abby not to trip on, both of us looking down to watch for them more than looking at anything else.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" Mike asks gently. He's always so gentle. Well, not always.

"Ope, someone lost their drink," I said to Mike, pointing at a spilled lemonade on the dirt path that had been created by decades of the county fair foot-traffic.

"Five second rule," Mike said, his voice low and teasing in my ear, making me burst out laughing.

"That's fucking disgusting!" I exclaimed, looking at him incredulously. A mother passing by snapped 'hey!' At me, tugging her child harshly behind her as she glared. I blushed, covering my mouth with my hand at the outburst, which made Mike laugh just as hard as I just had.

I suppose I have to talk about it. I can't really just not show up at his doorstep in the middle of the night and not just explain myself. But my teeth feel cemented together, my throat full of glue that halts the words I could use to inform him of why I look like this. And my eyes are too tired to make contact with his. So I just melt into his hand, pressing it between my cheek and my shoulder. And he doesn't press any more.

"I always liked the rides that made me feel like I was flying," Mike said as we watched Abby spin round and round with some girl she often spent her days with. Lisa Something.

"Yeah?" I asked, turning to look at him, taking a drink from the giant lemonade that was not at all real lemonade and was instead some horrid sugar that's taking five years off of our lives mixed with whatever makes the color of the drink the same as construction workers glow-in-the-dark vests that I'm sure will have like, ten different studies on how it gives you some cardiovascular disorder from overexposure in twenty years. There's a waxy ring of chapstick around my straw, so it's easy to tell which one to drink from. Mike had gotten just the one giant drink and two straws, shoving them in with a smooth smile as he handed me the already sweaty, Pepsi branded cup to hold while we walked. I think he didn't know that I noticed the twelve year old boy who'd been five people ahead of us in line do the same thing with his date earlier, but it was a cute gesture nonetheless.

"Yeah. I don't know why, it just felt comforting. Wind fuckin' up my hair and shit," he said, hands shoved in his jean pockets as he watched the two girls, who are sticking their tongues out at us as they whirl by.

"What, like you were flying away from your problems?" I ask, genuinely guessing.

"Nah, I don't really think of it like that. Just felt like I was somewhere else for a bit. Could close my eyes and the only anxiety I felt was whether or not Genie there was gonna fucken drop me," he said, glancing at me and smirking as he points at the giant airbrushed painting of Genie from Aladdin on the side of the ride. That's definitely not licensed.

"Have you eaten?" Mike asks softly, coming a little closer to me as his other hand cups my opposite cheek. At that I shake my head, pressing my lips together.

"It was all just some giant fiasco," I said as I laughed while trying to aim my basketball for the hoop several feet in front of me. Mike's made like five goals in a row and is proudly holding a very cheap rainbow dolphin with lopsided eyes for me while he watches me struggle just to get one.

"What, your prom date?" He teased, leaning closer to my ear as I take a shot. And miss. Again. "Or this?"

I turned to him, glaring and trying to suppress my amused smile.

"The date was fine, my hair was horrid," I said, turning away from the man working the booth who was trying to convince me to try again.

"I always like your hair," Mike says softly, one hand stroking my hair as he presses his forehead against mine. God, why won't he just tear into me already? The anticipation is fucking killing me.

I open my mouth to respond, but I just hiccup instead. At that he gently helps me up, guiding me out of the bathroom and leading me into the kitchen where he promises a leftover bowl of chicken noodle soup has my name written all over it in the fridge.

There's a thousand insecure questions I want to ask right now. Does he hate me? Will he hate me? Is this just a prelude to an awful breakup? But instead I just cling to my thoughts quietly, not wanting an answer to anything. Reality fading in and out of focus.

The kitchen is quiet as he moves about, dishing out the leftovers and putting them in the cheap, stained microwave he'd had to buy when Abby blew up the last one with a pitiful attempt at making her own rice Krispy treats. He leans against the counter as we wait for the rattling machine to finish, neither of us really saying anything as my leg bounces wildly in anxiety.

"Are you okay?" Mike asks softly after a moment, tilting his head. His arms are crossed in front of him, which is normal for Mike but it still makes me on edge.

I try again to speak, but I can't. It feels like I'll just blow up again if I do. So I just shrug instead, not wanting to talk about the lengthy screaming match I'd managed to find myself in earlier that night.

The microwave beeps loudly, causing us both to start, Mike pulling the door open quickly to shut it up and take out the now hot bowl, hissing under his breath at himself for not grabbing a towel as he quickly moves to set it down in front of me. If I'd been in a better state I would've laughed at the admittedly comical sight, but I felt like I'd done enough at his expense for one night.

Once situated, there's long while of silence. No other noise except for my spoon clinking against my bowl as I eat quietly, Mike watching me across the glass table as he takes a few drinks from his clear glass of water, head on his large hand. A clock ticks in the other room, the hour later than I'd wanted to be when I showed up unannounced.

"I'm sorry," I finally say in a soft voice, my spoon scraping soundlessly against the maroon bowl. "I just didn't know where else to go."

He smiles softly at that, his hand reaching across the table for mine. The touch meant to be comforting instead sends me back into my thoughts, my body stiffening as my mind tries to distract me from my anxiety and doubt.

Our hands had been brushing against each other for hours as we'd walked. Both of us were too nervous to take the others, which is a bit silly since we were grown adults. But really we hadn't had any serious discussions yet. We were still in the dinners and texting phase, dancing around any serious 'what is this' talks until we felt like we would both have similar answers ready for any questions. The night had settled in solidly now, the fairgrounds only alive by the bright lights of the rides.

The grazing, however, had come to an end when the ferris wheel started clicking towards what felt like my untimely demise.

I fucking hate ferris wheels, fun fact.

I don't think Mike particularly likes them either, based off of how stiff his body was next to mine, his eyes trained dead ahead, his jaw clenched. I think he might break a tooth. Or maybe I'm projecting.

Abby and Lisa had been insistent on riding it, and had been even more insistent that Mike and I needed to ride something with them before the night was over. And even though we both looked at the thing with a pit in our stomach, neither of us felt ridiculous about being grown adults on that ride as opposed to all the others flooded with teens and kids dodging in and out, stomping in puddles of who knows what on their way to the next ride. So we gritted our teeth, handed over our tickets and got into the cart right behind Abby and Lisa, who wouldn't stop looking back at us with amused eyes, whispering into each other's each as they covered their mouths.

"My dad worked as a carnie," I blurted out as we hung mid air, halfway up the ride while they still loaded people in. "These things are fucken sturdy."

Mike didn't look at me. Or at least he didn't turn his head. I didn't either. His silence makes my anxiety a bit worse, wondering if my random fact had somehow irritated him, or if there was something I was supposed to do that I wasn't picking up on.

"... I'm gonna die to Creed," he finally said between his gritted teeth.

My brows furrow for a moment before I realize what song is playing, and then I'm laughing. Maybe a little too much, but that's the anxiety. Abby and Lisa are darting their heads around to look down at us, trying to see what's set me off, and Creed's taking One Last Breath on the blaring radio somewhere around us as they have been for the past however many months with the top song.

"I'm never gonna escape this, they play this way too much at work," I laughed. And he started laughing too, both of us white knuckled as we gripped the bar in front of us. Then we move up again, and the cart is slightly rocking, making me feel ill.

"That's okay," Mike says softly, his thumb trailing across my knuckles as I stare down at our hands. "I was missing you, anyways."

I look up at him, trying to read his expression, my head still trying to balance my focuses. There's concern in his eyes, obvious as he realizes how awful this particular episode is.

Abby is yelling something at us, but my head is buzzing with too much anxiety to hear her.

"Go away!" Mike yells back at her, waving his hand in irritation, then stopping as he realizes he's rocking the cart. He looked back at me anxiously, trying to smile. It just looked like he'd been shot instead. "Sisters," he said shyly.

"What's she saying?" I asked him, leaning closer to hear him better over the heavy guitar.

"Nothing," he insisted. "She's just being twelve."

I go to look up, only to feel his hand on top of mine, warm and strong as he grips it a little too hard for the first time, but I think that's out of anxiety too. No matter what, the first move makes me more dizzy.

"Your dad worked fairs?" He asked anxiously, obviously trying to change the subject.

"I should've called first," I say softly, leaning onto the table and pushing the empty bowl away from me as I lay on top of my arm.

"It's okay," he reminds me in a soft voice, rising from his chair while still holding my hand. "You're home now."

"Well, I'm at your home now," I hiccup into my arm. His arms wrap around me, guiding me up and into his warm embrace that I'd been longing for for what felt like hours.

"I thought you said you liked flying!" I laughed, terrified.

"Flying! This is sitting still while dangling above death!" Mike clarified. The carts began clicking again, and we now had an easier view of the two girls in front of us, making him gasp and yell out Abby's full name in scolding.

I see why he didn't want me to look up. Abby and Lisa are miming a make-out session while they giggle obnoxiously.

"Oh my God, I'm gonna fucking ground her," he groaned, covering his forehead with his other hand. His face is completely red, his body so stiff it feels like I could break off his arm with barely any pressure, and my own heart is slamming so hard against my chest I think it's visible.

One more click and we'll be at the top. Great.

He's looking down at me, I think he's trying to get me to refocus but I just can't. I've done my duties for the night, and now I'm stuck in this emotional pit of hatred and numbness as my mind tries to remind me of a better time that just makes me feel worse because Mike is speaking again and I just can't hear him.

"She's being a wingman. Really, she's just spotting a good opportunity," I rambled in Abby's defense. Mike glanced at me, then at the tweens in front of us.

"Yeah?" He asked, his voice nerve wracked.

"Oh yeah. Every little sister does it. I mean, it's partially based in torture, but overall she's trying to help," I said quickly, my breath shortening.

"Are you okay?" He asked, looking just as pale as me.

"I fucking hate heights, please distract me," I pleaded quickly, only to immediately feel his teeth click loudly against mine as he kissed me, his lips sweet with sugar and hands nearly breaking mine from his tight grip, Abby and Lisa whooping obnoxiously in front of us as we freeze in the moment. It's clumsy, certainly. And it's obvious on both ends how long it's been since either of us have done this. But it's an effective method, my mind beginning to refocus on the taste of the borderline awful lemonade fresh on his breath, his shaking hand moving from the bar to cup my cheek cold from the wind. My eyes widen in surprise, the music swelling around us and the lights somehow brighter as we rock above the rest of the fair in the squeaking booth.

When he pulls away, there's a soft smile on his face, his tongue quickly darting out to taste his own lips.

"... I like your chapstick," he said shyly, neither of us focused on the fact that we're now moving steadily in the ride, fully tuned in to the other.

"Thanks," I said softly, cheeks burning against his touch. "Strawberry."

There's a long second of nothing, and I'm vaguely aware of Abby and Lisa screaming "Can You Feel the Love Tonight?" And someone is trying to shush them. I know it's not Mike because he's staring at me like an idiot. Completely satisfied and dramatically more calm as he leans in for another kiss, this time pulling me fully into his embrace.

"You're home," Mike repeats against my lips, then moving to trail along my cheeks, his hands carefully cupping my face once more as his touch grounds me back in reality. "I'll be here when your mind gets back."

As my own hands graze along his soft, cotton shirt, I feel my pulse begin to relax. Doubt beginning to creep away as his lips trail along my jaw, slowly working to my neck. It's not a demanding touch. It's just comfort. And he'll keep doing this until I return to him like I always do, and then he'll keep doing it until we both fall asleep in a tight embrace under a dozen blankets, half of which will be gone by morning as we wake in a pool of sweat across the bed from each other, only to seek the other out again in wakefulness. And there will be answers for his questions, and I'll be fine.

I'm home now.

¤▪︎{♧}▪︎¤

I FINALLY FUCKING PUBLISHED SOMETHING. HOLY FUCK I'M OVERWORKED. (Fun fact, this was fucking hard because I was actively disassociating while writing the whole thing. Reader just like me frfr)

Taglist:

@cassiecasluciluce @gh0u1ishly @joshhutchersons-slut @schmidtsbimbo @sugarevans @wompwompwomp57 @jhutchissupercool. Thank you for your support pookies!!! <3

•▪︎Masterlist▪︎•

#josh hutcherson fanfic #josh hutcherson #jhutch #mike schmidt #mike schmidt smut #mike schmidt x reader #mike schmidt fnaf #jhutch1992 #fnaf mike schmidt #fnaf mike #mike schmidt fluff #mike schmidt imagine #mike schmidt x reader smut #mike schmidt x you

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altades · 1 year ago

Text

Vashwood rant

I can't sleep so why not analyze vashwood in the middle of the night

Now, this analysis is mostly of the manga, with maybe small takes from 98 and tristamp

To start let's look at the boys from their respective beginnings

Vash is so cruelly mischaracterized as a child, and it might be a little bit of trismaps fault, even though i do love it, or maybe people are just putting characters into boxes without really thinking about it but Vash is so not soft-shy-nice little baby brother. The whole thing with him being younger is so insane to me, i get why if Nai was born like 10 minutes earlier he would make it his whole personality (very sibling thing to do) but it's just so stupid. No, they have 0 age difference and it doesn't affect their dynamic cuz the are literally twins for the love of god. And, really, when you look at the manga as kids Nai was the emotional one! And he still is!

Nai is plagued by fear and anger and resentment and those emotions are what drive his every decision. Vash, on the other hand, is much more in control of his feelings and doesn't show them as much. That is to say that pre-tesla nai is the one worried about their relationship with humans, about their future, he's the one crying after talking to Conrad (what a sweet child he was) while Vash seemes much less scared.

And when they find out about Tesla Nai is the one who faints - he’s the more reactive one, the emotional one. And that small difference is what sets their paths so differently. Because Vash actually gets a chance to talk to Rem and figure things out.And that talk is so very important because it makes Rem, who already was everything to Vash, even more important.

Now, I want us all to think about how terrified Vash was after seeing Tesla cuz he probably thought his own mother was going to dissect him and his brother. But then she saves him when he tries to end his own life, proving that no she’s not gonna kill him, because she, as every human, has the capability to learn from her mistakes and make better choices. (too bad Nai didn’t get that lesson lol)

And then we get to the big bad things. (it’s genocide) But the important part from that whole ordeal is Rem’s sacrifice. Because, listen, I love stories where humanity is shown to be capable of change and forgiveness is a virtue and love and pussy and all that but oh man can it be so so unrealistic and a little bit insane to watch (su im looking at u (i love su but oh boy that is not how the world works unfortunately)) but Trimax manages to make it work so well. I believe that’s cuz Vash is a very kind and loving man but is also completely out of his mind and has horrendous mommy issues. At least half the reason he doesn’t kill people is because Rem has died to save them, and killing them would make it all be for nothing. If he kills these people or if he lets them die would that mean that Rem died for nothing? Did she sacrifice her life to save these people only for her own son to end their lives? AND you know I’m right cuz he literally says it in the manga but also BECAUSE HE DOES THE SAME FOR WOLFWOOD (also he did kill Nai when he had the chance but we don’t have time to unpack that)

All of that is A LOT and very complicated (i love Vash he’s so well written he’s my perfect little meow meow) now let's talk about Wolfwoooooooooood /twirls hair/

WW is much easier to understand and analyze cuz he is, just a guy,, WW is just a normal person who gets insanely unlucky and gets in THE WORST possible situations (If he ever played DND he would roll straight 1s). That is to say that his story is sort of a way to show how much life in the badlands sucks, but also that there are good things even in the worst places (the orphanage) And WW reacts to situations in the most rational way possible way - he kills to survive. he doesn’t want to but he doesn’t get a say in it. If he could chose he would just live with his family and friend and do whatever. And that, him being so normal in such a violent and bloody world is what makes him suffer all the time. His inner moral compass is screaming at him what a terrible person he is and he promptly ignores it.

That is until that moral compass manifests itself in the form of a tall, blond and handsome stranger that he’s supposed to lead to his death. The stranger who turns out to be the most compassionate and kind man WW’s has ever seen. Who he’s supposed to kill. It’s like finding an oasis in the desert and being forced to burn it to the ground. And WW doesn’t want to do that, and he refuses to believe that the oasis is not a mirage so he tries to get Vash to kill someone, even if it’s WW himself. (It doesn’t work.)

As we all know WW changes his mind because of Vash’s influence. And he dies for it. Because even though Vash’s beliefs are born of human virtues, no man is made to walk his path, for he is not human and any mortal who tries to follow an angel to the skies is doomed to crash. WHAT YOU DON’T EXPECT IS THAT THAT MAN WILL BRING THE ANGEL DOWN WITH HIM

There is this line I wrote for an art i’m planning to make and if you’ve read this far you deserve a lil spoiler - “have you found absolution in bringing an angel to his knees?” and it captures perfectly what i'm thinking. And also Vash spends so much time trying to be closer to people but I think him killing Legato might’ve been the most human thing he’s ever done. Cuz it’s is so beautiful in the way he does it for the memory of the person he loved and yet so ugly in it’s cruelty.

I’ve said this before but most of the time when there is a human/ some immortal powerful creature relationship I don’t think the human is that special but WW HE SO IS. Maybe it’s the way that he’s just as deep in the nuclear bombs with personality business as Vash is, being one of said nuclear bombs, but still remains a normal person with relatively good morals that he can anchor Vash to a sort of normality that he doesn’t get often. Like what other guy would get hunted by all sorts of freaks with you, get in trouble all the time, get shot and etc and etc and then go for a drink with you like it’s a normal wednesday? Wolfwood. Or maybe it's that WW learns of every worst part of Vash, he sees him be on the brink of losing himself, he knows Vash has actually caused the deaths of hundreds of thousands of people and ALMOST did it again after Julai, and still stays with him? He sees Vash become something that is not human at all and still stay? Idk MAYBE IT’S ALL OF THAT but WW is just so important and so down bad but we all know that already so i’m not gonna add to that

Anyways, I got this all out of my system gn

#vashwood #trigun #trigun maximum

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itsabouttimex2 · 1 year ago

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ooo if your not busy maybe Mei or Azure a gn! Reader who’s a descendant of the lady bone demon but said friend tries to hide that fact from them

(Thank you for sending such an interesting request! I ended up liking this scenario so much that I wrote out a few characters for it!)

Descendant of the Lady Bone Demon: Part One

(Part One) (Part Two) (Part Three)

Maybe they should’ve seen this coming. Maybe there were a few warning signs they didn’t pick up on. Looking back on it now, it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? All those little things should’ve added up a long time ago.

The way the room grew silent and tense when you walked in, no matter how how exuberant it had been prior. How you manage to sneak up on everyone without even trying, as though you had no presence. The wide berth that strangers give you, even though they can’t explain why. That last one had been particularly strange for your friends. They hadn’t understood why people would treat you so coldly, not back then.

They understand now.

Mei Dragon thinks of you as one of her best friends, right alongside MK. Even in childhood were the two of you close, your company providing a brief break from her parents expectations and the crushing weight of living up to her family name. She grows up to think of you as a sibling, really. She’s a ride or die, rise to the challenge, thrill junkie sort of girl. And above all else, she’s fiercely loyal to her friends.

So Mei doesn’t believe a word that LBD has to say. She doesn’t care about destiny, about fate, about these so-called “invisible strings that guide us all through life”.

She lives her life as she pleases, doing what makes her and her friends happy! And she’s not gonna listen to a word that some wannabe world-destroyer has to say about it!

Until the Lady Bone Demon mentions you.

“Y/N bears my very own blood, thin though it has grown. In time, they will follow the very same path I have, to cleanse this world of pain and suffering.”

Now she’s listening. Her control over the Samadhi Fire slips, scorching a ring of death into the earth around her. The heat alone wilts the any flora that was spared outright combustion. “How…” The fire flickers, fizzles.

And then promptly reignites, blazing hotter than ever before. Immediately, the Lady Bone Demon cringes away from Mei’s sweltering power as oppressive heat waves bear down on her. She can only watch in fear and awe as the Samadhi Fire grows hotter and brighter, fueled by rage.

“How DARE you say that about my friend! Y/N would never do anything like that!” A blazing arc of black and red fire slices into the blue crystal formations created by the demon, melting them into sizzling puddles. Her anger builds with each lash of multicolored fire, reducing each and every spiked crystal around her to a mess of glowing goo.

That anger doesn’t fade even after the fight is over, not even after she gets to see the Lady Bone Demon shred apart and drift away. It’s cathartic to watch, but doesn’t make her any less angry about what she heard.

No, that anger only fades once she has you in her arms, hugging you as tightly to herself as possible. You don’t know about your lineage. No one else does either. Just Mei. Which leaves her with the worst dilemma of her life.

Does she tell you? Does she tell anyone?

She doesn’t want to be like Sun Wukong, hiding important information from even the people who would be affected by it the most. She was a victim of that, and it had hurt. She doesn’t want to hurt you. That’s the last thing she wants. But she also doesn’t want to cast any doubt on you, doesn’t want anyone to think you might end up a destructive foe that would one day need to be struck down.

The fear of losing you somehow outweighs the fear of you being angry at her for withholding information from you.

So she keeps quiet.

Mei rationalizes her silence on the matter by telling herself that she’ll tell you later. Yes, everything will work out, she’s sure of it! She’ll just… wait. Just a little bit. When everything calms down and everyone starts to move on from this disaster, she’ll speak up. Once everyone is in a better, happier mood, they’ll definitely be more receptive to the bad news, right? So she isn’t doing anything wrong. She isn’t acting like the Monkey King. She’s… just keeping you safe.

And she really hopes you won’t hate her for it.

———————————————————————

Tang has long pondered your place in this little group. It’s not that he doesn’t like having you here, nothing of the sort! Really, he sees you as family, the same way he sees everyone else in this ragtag group of misfits.

But you stick out like a sore thumb. Everyone else has a direct tie to the original pilgrims who once undertook a legendary journey to retrieve sacred texts.

Tang Sanzang for Tang. Zhu Baije for Pigsy. Sha Wujing for Sandy. Ao Lie for Mei. Sun Wukong for MK. Everyone had someone who their skills, appearance, or even personality harkened back to.

Everyone except for you. Tang had made several guesses before, wondering if there was someone you yourself were standing in the place of. But no one truly seems to fit. Rather than distancing himself from you over this disparity, he makes an effort to grow closer. “It must be lonely”, he reasons to himself, “being the odd man out.” He’s struggled with his own insecurities of being useless or weak, so he can relate to you on a personal level. After making that connection between the two of you, he starts to look out for you, trying to help guide you as you grow.

Tang probably sees himself as your father figure, just the way he sees himself as MK’s.

But, since you don’t have the support system that MK has, he tries to take a more involved role in your life. He’ll sit down with you to chat about any troubles or struggles you have, offering you a kind ear and a welcoming shoulder. And if you ever are struggling with something so bad that it breaks you down and leaves you in tears, he happily takes you into his arms and stays with you through the meltdown. If you fall asleep in his embrace after wearing yourself out, he enjoys it all the more.

He cherishes moments like that, actually.

Sure, he’s sympathetic to your feelings of loneliness and isolation. It’s true that he wants you to be happy. Sometimes he hates the world for hurting you the way it has.

But he loves that you trust him enough to break down in front of him, that you trust him to console and protect you in your weakest moments.

Even at a moment like this, where one of the greatest threats to humanity is bearing down on the two of you. For once, he doesn’t hide or cower. Not when your life is on the life. His golden shield encapsulates both of you, a fierce glare painting his face as he holds you close. You breath raggedly against his shoulder, barely able to support yourself. You had been wounded in the fight, nearly passing out after taking several blows for him and the others. Now, he holds you close, standing tall as you lean on him for support. He watches as the Lady Bone Demon throws attack after attack at the two of you, each blast of crystal and bone shattering and fading against his aureate shield.

The ancient demon glares down at him, a sneer curling her face. “You would fight your destiny? The great monk, Tang Sanzang-”

“I don’t care! Even if I am his reincarnation or his descendant… the choices I make are mine and mine alone! And I will always choose to protect my friends!”

“Even Y/N? Even the very one who bears my blood within them? Are you truly willing to risk saving them now, that they might follow my ways later?”

All the little pieces click into place for him. The mystery he had pondered the most was finally solved, and now he had to live with learning the answer.

“That- that doesn’t matter! Y/N is a person all their own, who will make their own decisions! And I trust them to stay by our side and fight for good! I won’t let you corrupt them!”

And he doesn’t. His resplendent barrier holds fast, shining brightly until all that is left of the demon has been scattered to the wind. He holds you gently, mustering the strength to carry you on his when everyone makes the trip back to Pigsy’s noodle shop. Someone like Sandy or Wukong would definitely better suited to the physical labor he was performing, but Tang couldn’t bear to separate himself from you yet.

Nor is he willing to let go once everyone has taken a seat. He props you up against himself, rubbing your back to keep you awake. “The kids eat first,” Pigsy says, carrying three hearty bowls of noodles. MK, then Mei, then you. Once all of you have your noodles, the chef goes back to the kitchen to start on another batch. Tang holds the bowl and the chopsticks, lifting the noodles to your mouth. Occasionally, he tips the bowl to your mouth so you can sip at the nourishing broth. On any other day, he would’ve swiped a few bites for himself while feeding you. Now, you’re all he can think of. He feeds you bite by bite, then guides you to lay your head in his lap once you’ve finished.

“Hey, Tang.” Pigsy peers down at him, another bowl of noodles in his hands. He passes it to Tang. “What was that demon lady saying to ya anyways?”

Tang looks down at you, watching your chest rise and fall, looking more at peace than ever before. He can’t tell you. Not here. Not now. Maybe not ever. But he and Pigsy can both keep secrets, and more than that, you’ll have two targets to split your anger between, keeping Tang from catching the brunt of it if you ever do find out. So he asks:

“Do you think you can keep a secret, Pigsy?”

Red Son

He doesn’t know why he likes you. By all means, you’re just another peasant, another mortal working at the same noodle store that his arch-rival is. But there’s something different about you. Maybe it’s the way you never seem to flinch or cringe or even cower. Maybe it’s the cool head you keep. Maybe it’s the wide-eyed awe you stare at his creations with.

Even after you had been kidnapped.

“I thinks that it was very clever of you,” you softly admit, not fighting against your bonds. “The way you used the tri-toothed 1x2 plates. I don’t see many people use those.”

He shouldn’t be happy to hear you say that. He should scoff and huff and strike down your praise like it’s meaningless drivel. But it’s not. Not to him. He’s been waiting to hear something like that for a long time, actually. Now, if it only it had been from the mouth of his father…

He shakes himself from those thoughts. “Not that a PEASANT like you could ever comprehend just how truly clever my work is! In fact, the legs of this machine are held in place by a truly unique-” “Technic angular wheel,” you finish for him. “It was a smart choice. I bet finding one that could evenly bear the weight of four legs at once wasn’t easy.”

No… no, it hadn’t been. In fact, it had been very hard to source that component. But here you were… acknowledging him. Praising him. Giving weight to his accomplishments by recognizing them. Somewhere deep inside, he’s a little touched to have his efforts commended.

Not that your kindness inspires him to release you. The only thing that frees you is MK and Mei coming in and storming through, knocking him over the head and escaping with you in their clutch.

Still, he doesn’t… hate you, at least. Or maybe, he just hates you less now. It’s a surprisingly good start.

A start that you continue to build off of throughout your repeated interactions, to his surprise. Your praise wasn’t just a one-time thing, wasn’t a way to get him to drop his guard. It had been genuine, entirely sincere. You had truly thought of him as clever, and you still do.

His schemes become less destructive, but more frequent. MK starts sending you out to deal with him, and most of your “skirmishes” end without any true damage. The two of you talk tech, and then he “tactically retreats” from the fight. Eventually, he drops the act, just swinging by the noodle store to talk with you about mechs or vehicles or rare components and where to find them at reasonable prices.

It’s a strange sight for everyone, the two of you amicably chatting. Sometimes someone will try to butt in, usually MK, who tries to keep up with your conversations to no avail. Other times it’ll be Pigsy, making sure that one of his employees isn’t being threatened or endangered. If one of his new mechs has a Journey to the West inspiration, Tang will happily chime in on it.

But most often, it’s only the two of you, happily talking as equals. Not enemies. Not rivals. Just… actual friends, somehow.

Even if it meant fighting to defend them, these are the sorts of moments he doesn’t want to lose. He wants to protect these cherished hours he spends with you, sharing noodles and blueprints in the middle of a crowded but welcoming restaurant.

Even if it meant fighting a foe he had no chance of defeating. All he has to do is buy a little bit of time. Just enough for MK and his ragtag team of idiots and peasants to smash this osseous demon into pieces. He glares up at her, his hair and hands exploding into flame. It’s a mere display, a small threat to keep her occupied. If she focuses on him, then she can’t hurt you.

Not that she’s trying.

“Foolish child. Do you really think I can’t understand the game that you’re trying to play? You would stand in the way of a peaceful world, all in the name of protecting the heir of your enemy?”

He falls to the ground, clutching his head in pain as she taps into his mind to deliver her next words.

“But a meager resistance cannot hope to undo destiny. I will find Y/N, and add their power to my own. That is their destiny, and I will see it fulfilled.”

“You- you won’t! I wont allow it, you… you PEASANT! You can’t hope to beat all of us! The Demon Bull Family, Sun Wukong and his successor, and the Six-Eared Macaque! All of us will stand against you! If we stand together, there is no threat that can overcome us!”

It’s a little funny, almost. Once, he would’ve scoffed and mocked another for saying such a thing. They sound silly on his tongue, cheesy and overblown. It’s something more suited to MK and his band of goons, speeches of friendship and overcoming adversities together. But it’s true.

And her defeat is testament to the strength that loves brings.

He thinks he loves you. You’re what he imagines having a little sibling is like. He wonders if you could love yourself, if you knew the truth of your heritage. Maybe you could. Maybe you’d fall apart and refuse to trust yourself ever again.

He chats idly with MK as you rest your head on his lap. It brings a strange peace to his heart. You look almost happy, in spite of the bruises and cuts. You look happy, which is proof that you didn’t hear a word that the Lady Bone Demon said about your blood ties.

He doesn’t want to rob you of that happiness so quickly, not when you fought and bled for it.

He absentmindedly strokes your head, thinking of how he’d roast anyone who might try to harm so much as a single hair on it. He can’t let anyone hurt you. Not even himself.

So he keeps quiet, and prays that all will turn out well.

#Platonic Yandere #Yandere LMK #Yandere Lego Monkie Kid #Yandere Mei #Mei Dragon #Yandere Tang #Mr. Tang #Yandere Red Son #Red Son #sorry it took so long #I put a lot of effort into this one!#Crystal Heir

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bonzos-number-1-fan · 8 months ago

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What R# Means: The ABC's of Fear.

The grading system used by the OIAR is one of TMAGP's more central mysteries. The show is rife with administrative work that's obfuscated even to the employees that assign each case's rating.

I have my own theory about DPHW that I think is proving more and more likely each episode, but as of yet I don't think a comprehensive theory on CAT# or R# has been given. CAT# is still proving a hard to crack but I now think I can take a strong stab at the meaning behind R#.

Spoilers for TMAGP 1-7 below the cut.

For the people who aren't keeping close track of this I'll break down how those terms are used. Each incident the OIAR assesses is assigned a case number in the following format CAT#R#DPHW. CAT, short for Category, is assigned a value of 1, 2, 3, or any combination of those three digits (12, 13, etc.). R, short for Rank, are graded C, BC, B, AB, A, or S (potentially AS but it's not come up). For DPHW each letter is a category itself and replaced with a digit from 0-9 for its grading. So there are 6 separate statistics that the OIAR uses to assess each incident.

If I'm correct about DPHW it's a ranking based on the qualities the incident presents. That's obviously very valuable information. Because of how CAT# is formatted we know it's likely three non-mutually exclusive facets. I had some idea about what it could be but it's proving quite tricky to nail down.

However it's R# that is the topic of today's post and it's something I've had a few ideas on before. We know can assume from its formatting it's a linear scale. C is the "worst/weakest/etc." while S is the "best/strongest/etc.". Initially, I thought that R# was simply a straight forward ranking of potency or threat. Higher the rank, spookier the incident. Very early on that seemed like a strong idea. It was quickly disproven but I then had the idea that Rank was instead the scale of the effect. Higher the rank, wider the incident. Also quickly disproven.

Now I'm thinking it's graded on how hard it is to deny an incident's supernatural nature. Simply put, an outside observer can more readily find a believable rational explanation for an incident of lower rank than of higher rank. Either via their own conviction to believe the supernatural isn't real, or based on the story the OIAR cooks up to explain it.

For that to make sense it needs to tick two boxes. It needs to be able to be pre-assigned to an incident as all CAT#R#DPHW's seem to be, and it needs to be useful information to track. As they're operating under the assumption that CAT#R#DPHW's can be pre-assigned then they're operating under the assumption that each type of incident is relatively stable. Meaning that the likelihood that it can be rationally explained is also relatively stable. Tick 1. There is also a really strong reason for the OIAR to use this as a grade. They're the Office of Incident Assessment and Response, the Response Department might be dead but it was a part of the initial plan. Grading each incident on how likely they are to cause concern should the details go public is very useful for deciding how to approach any given case. Tick 2.

It being useful is all well and good but it does also need to have some evidence so let's look at our highest ranked incident to this point: CAT23RAB2155 - Transformation (Eye) -/- Trespass. A man grew eyes over his body. That's pretty tricky to explain away as a medical mystery. On the other end of the scale we've got CAT2RC1157 - Dolls (Watching), or CAT2RC3338 -Agglomeration (Miscellany) -/- Congregation†. Just a creepy doll and some crappy antiques. I think of all the incidents the one that's the least immediate fit is CAT3C7494 - Collection (Blood) -/- Musical. Most of that incident is very easy to slot in here. "It's just a violin that has sharp strings, so what?". But it's also a violin that made some people eat some other people. However, mass hysteria events do get reported every so often IRL and do have a very long history. So in the grand scheme of things I don't think the details of the event are necessarily all that outlandish. It's really in the realms of urban legend and witch hunts than it is definitive proof of the supernatural.

With all that out the way this is the broad strokes of how I could see this breaking down. C ranks are things you can entirely write off as urban legends, freak accidents, and stress. Potentially things that might not need any covering up at all. I think the majority of events people could entirely say didn't happen will end up in C. "Of course the doll wasn't watching you, dolls aren't alive". B ranks are things that are harder to entirely discount as things that happened but are themselves still relatively easy to excuse as mundane. "Sure, the circumstances of that blogger's disappearance are strange but people go missing all the time, doesn't mean a monster did it". We don't have any A ranks but given the AB rank we do have I'd say A's are things in which no rational explanation can account for it, and as such require more extensive covering up, if it indeed happened. "Okay, maybe the supernatural is real because people don't just grow eyes like that".

As I mentioned early, an S rank does exist. We've not seen this attributed to anything in the show yet and so it might prove to be a special case. However on Klaus' sheet‡ from the ARG it's attributed to an interesting incident. A CAT1RS[No DPHW] with the note Mr. B. And, well, if you know, you know.

From Klaus' sheet we also know that the higher ranked incidents happen less often than lower ones and that idea generally tracks with what we know of TMP and TMA. The supernatural tends to be something you can explain away. It often is explained away. Incredibly overt manifestations are a rarity.

This one will be a slow burn to see if it bears out. Much like with DPHW's it's only really interesting when things go against the theory. I'm not as certain on this one as I am the DPHW theory but I do think it's got legs with our current data.

† This did also feature people who seemed to erase their physical features from your memory after you interacted with them. This isn't something I mention in the theory because it's not taken into account by the header and case number. A major flaw in the OIAR's methodology here is that all incidents are only ever one thing. So the case number is based solely on the presence of lots of miscellaneous objects, rather than the mind-wiping people carrying them.

‡I have made an incident master doc here, containing all the current cases, their CAT#'s, R#'s, DPHW's, etc. It has about as much information on each as I think is reasonable, including who narrates it, a link to its episode, and any other relevant notes, as well as headers for incidents we didn't hear. Additionally it also contains the Klaus sheet (German and English) and links to it when an incident matches. It will be updated each episode after the episode is publicly available.

#the magnus protocol #tmagp speculation #tmagp theory #klaus = kl4-u5

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theunchainedmelody · 5 months ago

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Subjugator of Worlds- A "My Adventures with Superman" one shot about Kara & Jimmy

Rating: T for Teen Pairing: Kara/Jimmy I conquered planets, me and my father. Razed worlds that opposed us all for the glory of the Kryptonian empire. Even as my heart ached for my victims, as I grinned as I tore apart planetary champions, even as my father was forced to subdue the emotions within me that occasionally flared up… Even then I did not stop.

But then I came to this world. This backwater planet should not fascinate me as it does. And I find myself staring at towering skyscrapers unmarred by our weaponry, upon a civilization living a peaceful existence… It all captivates me so… None moreso than one of the first humans I came across on a city street. A man named Jimmy Flamebird. Seeing him, I wondered if all Earthling males were so enamoring to the eyes, but perhaps it no longer matters. He rescued me, not knowing I was the enemy, the conqueror. That his planet was doomed for I was the arbiter of its very subjugation.

Even so, I find myself wishing to hold back around him, to let him do with me as he pleases. He takes me to such amazing places to taste food I had not imagined, flavors far surpassing the bland military rations my father offers to sustain me. I’m falling in love with this planet, and that scares me in a way that taking on a battleship with naught but my battle armor ever could. I’ve felled such warships singlehandedly without a scratch but if Jimmy were to be hurt, I think I would crumble. I fear nothing on this planet more than him, my greatest temptation luring me into complacency. And worst of all, I don’t resist a single request of his nor do I wish to.

I came here to find someone, to find the one man in the universe who can understand me, and yet, I’m so easily being led astray. Curse these emotions, these wants, unbefitting of a warrior of Krypton.

Sexless.

Genderless.

Bred for war.

That’s what I am.

But around Jimmy I’ve never felt like more of a woman. He’s so handsome and so sweet. I feel bodily desires emerging I could never bring up in Father’s presence. I suspect Jimmy is not truly the planetary leader he claimed to be nor that we are drawing any closer to seeing my cousin. And yet I do not want the sun to set on this perfect day.

I’ve never had a perfect day.

All days in space bleed together.

I find myself silently apologizing to my father for my betrayal, for my hesitation, promising myself I’ll bring this planet to its knees to rectify this wrong. And yet, for that same reason, I hope Father stays away a little longer.

I need to find the person that will comprehend my loneliness, my might, my heritage…

But when I find him, Kal-el is not the warrior I had hope he’d be. At the time, I found myself overstimulated by noises and violence around me from some public mockery. Why would one as great as he subject themselves to this? I’d take the familiar ringing of ballistic missiles in my ears over this chaos. I do not wish to hurt these people, but my mind is telling me to silence the threat. Agitation creeps up my spine. That’s when I see my cousin clearly, and I feel so odd. Am I nervous? Nervous like when Jimmy had so chivalrously cleaned that delicious ice cream from my cheek? I need Kal-El to give me something Father won’t, some wisdom… some guidance… an answer to the cold loneliness of conquest and deep space. Only to him, I’m part of the mockery of this world and he brushes past me without a second thought. No, to him, I’m somehow of less importance than the earthling woman I’d seen kissing his cheek. How disgusting, such fraternization with a lowly being.

And so, in my rage, I chastise him. And Father sends me upon him like a mad dog. I’ve always been his dignified lieutenant on the verge of conquest, but in truth, a mad dog off her leash is what I become in battle. It always feels good, and afterwards, leaves me shivering in fear of my own reflection. I see the people of this world trembling at my tyranny, and I know that as always, this is my fault. Father calms my emotions, and the next minute becomes a blur, but afterwards, it’s still me doing these things. Hurting Kal-El. Needing to hurt him. Needing to rescue him so that he can be where he belongs. With his own kind. With me. For a moment, my thoughts turn to Jimmy Flamebird, who I abandoned back in a burning city. I steel away the weakness that wishes to seek him out. And yet I wonder if the man has come to resent me for what I am and what I will do to his world.

I am Kara Zor-El of Krypton. And this is what I am and always will be. A monster. And I will never be free of me.

Notes: Please note this was written after episode 5 aired so episode 6 and beyond might contradict a lot of details I've assumed about Kara's lore and personality.

#my adventures with superman #Kara Danvers #Supergirl #Jimmy Olsen #Kara/Jimmy #Jimmy/Kara #Mine #Ficlet

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biblioflyer · 5 months ago

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X-Men: Trust is Cheap When You Have a Trust Fund

Personal experiences can bestow a fundamentally sunny disposition about Mutant assimilation in Human society. They can also inspire the bleakest despair and a level of skepticism about unilateral disarmament.

Previously I discussed why X-Men as a setting is fundamentally pessimistic as a necessity according to the creative choices made. It is an essay in 5 parts:

1,2,3,4,5

This is a new series analyzing how experience and social status influences Mutant outlooks on the assimilation vs separatism/supremacy question.

It should not surprise us at all that the Morlocks and Magneto have very different opinions from Xavier about who should regulate their behavior and how. Once he’s confronted with how little protection his wealth affords him, even Sunspot becomes a convert to Magneto’s way of thinking.

When you’ve had a bad experience with someone claiming to be on your side and then contradicting literally every value you thought you shared, it makes a person calloused against appeals to a shared set of values or the innate goodness of humanity.

For a real life example, George Orwell’s “Animal Farm” is a repudiation of the Soviet Union under Stalin, even though Orwell was no fan of extreme inequality and the violence used by elites to protect that inequality in market driven societies. Orwell was motivated to revisit the idea of whether the USSR was a true reflection of his values due to his personal sense of betrayal when the Soviet Union declined to intervene in the Spanish civil war against the Nazi allied regime.

We ought not to be surprised when impoverished visible Mutants find it difficult to imagine having a seat at the table when they can’t even get a seat at the table masquerading as Sapiens.

Xavier’s access to power is always depicted as somewhat tenuous and his relationships with Presidents are transactional. Regardless of their personal feelings and long term visions, the leaders Charles interacts with are primarily focused on day to day crisis management. These leaders are ultimately accountable to the overwhelming majority of the population that does not have special abilities and those who are fearful of Mutants and those who are supportive of Mutants vote and contribute to political campaigns.

Xavier isn’t even visibly mutated. The tendency for Humans to perceive Morlocks as hideously disfigured denies them any comfort in mainstream society. Their very appearance reminds Humans that something has gone amiss in the gene pool and that something may not bode well for baselines in the long run.

Magneto’s experiences as a Sapien minority on the wrong side of the boot has made him deeply skeptical of power beyond his own. A Holocaust survivor, Magneto doesn’t need to imagine what the worst case scenario is for Human - Mutant relations.

Like Orwell, he is not easily swayed by appeals to common values or shared interest. For Magneto, trust is earned and the tests to earn it are not easy. As a consequence of his experiences, Magneto has adopted an attitude that only the people that are imminently facing the same type of threats can truly understand each other and be relied upon.

To the extent that this is a fair and accurate sentiment, taken to an extreme it can be very isolating and leave one with few allies and even fewer people whose insights might be trusted when they contradict Magneto’s own instincts. This becomes a serious problem when Cortez worms his way into Magneto’s inner circle or Magneto rationalizes the fate of Mutants trapped on an Earth incapable of using modern technology as expediting evolution.

Yet, cynic that he is, life as an island is hard and even Magneto is not immune to the occasional savvy operator figuring out how to earn and abuse his trust, like Cortez.

Next up: Power level as privilege. What happens when a cranky Omega isn’t trapped in here with you, you are trapped with them….

#x men 97 #erik lehnsherr #x men the animated series #magneto #charles xavier #george orwell #animal farm #mutants #marvel #superhero ethics #superhero worldbuilding

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rist-ix · 10 months ago

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So, I was thinking about that, in chapter 16 tbhtbhs, the chapter bloom runs away, she didn’t kill valtor because she’s kind feel something for him, or because she thought she has no chance?

Hahaha HA, tumblr user supremevaltor, you have fallen right into my trap! For you see, now I have an opening to prepare my favorite attack: analyzing my own fic!

If we jump a few paragraphs back in the very same chapter, we get to see Bloom have an existential crisis over the fact that she COULD convince herself she feels SOMETHING for Valtor, if she tried.

And this vaguest tiniest confession of not-hatred (to herself, mind you, not even to Darcy, who’s witnessing All That) has her absolutely spiraling to the point it’s physically and visibly affecting her.

By the time she gets to the library she has mostly recovered from that realization, and by recovered I mean she’s buried that shit and is politely refusing to look at it.

Now, fast forward to the library. Valtor, for the first time in almost four years, has been completely and utterly honest, is drunk and in a uniquely vulnerable position, and does not demand honesty from Bloom (which she’s struggling with) but a comforting lie (which she’s bad at, but shouldn’t be opposed to).

Betraying him at this point instead of besting him in combat does not feel good for Bloom, but she can rationalize that away pretty easily.

Now though. Now she has a problem.

For ensuring her long-term freedom and the overall safety of the dimension, she should definitely kill him here. Valtor says as much, she will never get a better chance.

Here’s where it gets complicated.

What you mentioned definitely plays a role here: she doubts her chances of success. Valtor has blindsided and overwhelmed her by feigning weakness in the past, every battle so far has gone in his favor, he always has an ace up his sleeve and so on. He’s also - desperately - trying to goad her into attacking, which to him is a way to keep her here until the handcuffs’ spell runs out, and to Bloom seems highly suspicious.

But to attempt to kill him now would also mean to be confronted with the loss of him. Which would mean reopening that Pandora’s box of “What do I feel for him”. And Bloom, due to her feeling of immense guilt and debt to her friends, cannot acknowledge that her hatred for him has softer impurities. If Valtor died, she would not only physically feel the loss of their connection, she would never hear his voice again. She prides herself on being able to predict what he’ll say sometimes, to interpret and understand him in a way no one else can. That would end, immediately.

If he died, she would lose someone whose company she’s grown so used to and familiar with. Someone - maybe the only one! - she has no fear of disappointing, who has unwavering faith in her and who she CANNOT hurt emotionally no matter how angry and violent and bitter she gets. (Because a) he definitely always deserves it, and b) he enjoys fighting verbally almost as much as he enjoys fighting physically. He already knows all the worst impulses of her, and he’s never disapproved.)

It’s a comforting thing to know and be known so fully. Losing that would be daunting, no matter the nature of their relationship.

There’s a reason I chose the library as the setting for this encounter btw. And that’s that libraries are sexy. But also, the book they read the night before is still on that table, page marked. Bloom looks at it very briefly before she runs.

Not only did they have a pleasant time and a very emotionally honest conversation here, Valtor has also surprised her. There’s a point after he realizes Bloom can’t read Domino’s language where he apologizes, and cuts himself off when he starts to look for a scapegoat. (It was Faragonda. He always blames Faragonda.)

Bloom doesn’t know that last part, but it still stood out to her that he stopped talking mid-sentence. (Valtor!!!!! Stopped talking!!!!!)

It’s a short glimpse of a Valtor who does not prioritize control of the situation over Bloom’s feelings, and allows (forces) himself to not make this a power struggle, but a moment of understanding, and connection.

(The page is marked! Symbolizing clear intent to continue! They can go back to it whenever they want, and revisit that genuine and sincere part of their relationship! Bloom looks at it and runs!)

To kill him here, face to face with what he already is to her and who he could be, is not something Bloom can stomach. And this is a Bloom who has killed better people for less, when it meant the immediate safety of her friends.

If Valtor paused long enough to examine that, which I’m undecided on whether he has, he might feel a lot better about that day.

Alas, he goes apeshit.

#fantastic ask thank you very much #asks #fic: to be hunted to be haunted #fic: to know to want #sparxshipping

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bizaar · 1 year ago

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Cruel Summer - Part 15

First - Previous - Next

pairings: Eddie Munson x fem!reader

summary: After breaking up, you and Eddie do your best to soldier on with your lives, but you slowly begin to discover that there is a stronger line of connection keeping you together than just history…

word count: 8k

warnings: swearing, horror descriptors, violence/blood, characters being in danger - people are getting fucked up, but the worst is yet to come (I'm so sorry)

A.N.: I couldn't do it, Chat, I had to split this chapter up into two parts - shit has officially hit the fan

Running is not your favorite activity. Never has been, never will be, and yet here you inexplicably are, hauling ass through the woods of your nightmares like your life depends upon it – which it absolutely does.

There is no question in your mind as to what will happen to you if you are caught, and it is that very thought that spurs you on. The Demogorgon ate Barb, and if you are not quick, and careful and extremely fucking light on your feet, these bats are going to eat you.

Somehow, you don’t imagine they’ll do you the courtesy of killing you first, either.

So no, running is not something you particularly enjoy doing (it’s a wonder you went and willingly volunteered for this – the things you do for love). You might even be inclined to say that running is awful.

Always has been, always will be.

It’s nothing but the terrible sensation of feeling every part of your body moving, shifting awkwardly under the duress of being suddenly thrust into motion, forcing you to become painfully aware of yourself in ways you are typically content to ignore.

But you’re not thinking about any of that.

You’re not thinking about the way your lungs are heaving and quickly growing tight and raw, how your knees and ankles are already stinging with every pounding step you take.

You’re not thinking about the walkie-talkie strung around you, thump thump thumping awkwardly against your side, strap chafing against your neck, corner digging sharply in, and grinding a bruise into your hip.

You’re not thinking about the trees and branches reaching out to snag you and slow you down at every turn, and you’re absolutely not thinking about the cloud of certain death tailing not so distantly behind you.

You’re not thinking at all— you’re just running.

Faster than you ever have, faster than you ever thought you were capable of, so fast it feels a little bit like flying.

The only indication that the bats have taken the bait is the rushing sound of hundreds of flapping wings and wiry bodies moving through the trees around you like crashing thunder. You know you should be scared out of your wits – you’re sure you would be if you were any smarter, but you’re not.

You’re just running.

Suddenly it’s like the forest is not even there. There are no bats, there is no Upsidedown, no impending doom brought upon you by some bullshit wizard out of Eddie’s imagination – it’s just you and the wind upon which you glide.

You’re too caught in the half-drunken state of giddy nerves and adrenaline to be worried about not being scared. The absence of your fear leaves you feeling more than a little bit astounded at how well you’re doing.

You marvel at your pace – how you haven’t stumbled or faltered even once, how fast you are.

You could almost laugh out loud at the feeling of it, the freedom – then again that could just be the heady intoxication of running for your life, but you can’t presently be bothered by things of the rational world.

You’re winged Icarus taking flight, skirting the sky, chasing the wind, led on by the distant themes of the loving Metallica tribute raging on.

You run hard and fast, without abandon or fear of things like the fragility of your squishy mortal form, flailing desperately as you take flight.

Nothing can touch you — nothing but cruel irony and raised tree roots.

In an instant, it all comes crashing down. Your foot snags, and you stumble with a harsh, breathless expletive, very nearly tumbling ass over teakettle, and the terrible sobering reality of your frailty comes rushing back to you.

Suddenly, you remember that running is terrible, and you’re actually very bad at it.

It’s all chaffed thighs and twisted ankles, huffing and puffing and feeling every drop of sweat that comes cascading down from all the nooks and crannies in your body that you spend the duration of your days mostly unaware of.

You’re no golden icon stealing their freedom on a wing and a prayer, you’re nothing more than a mediocre student with a shitty car, oblivious parents, and no academic ambition – more than that, you suddenly have the very good sense to be afraid again, and it hits you like a brick to the face.

This isn’t some agonizing fifth-period excursion into the sadistic tendencies of your gym teacher – this is honest-to-God danger. You are being hunted and if you are caught you will die.

You may very likely die anyway – that’s just the name of the game.

Suddenly, you can feel your blood turning to sludge in your veins, your legs starting to tremble, and your lungs beginning to spasm with each greedy intake of air, but despite all of that, you keep running.

You run, because what other choice have you got?

The wailing screech of Eddie’s guitar is the guiding beacon, tugging on the strings of your heart and sending you sailing through the woods toward safety, but the squeeze of Dustin’s watch strapped to your wrist is a ball and chain, dragging you down further and further into the loamy earth with every second that ticks away too fast.

As if to drive the notion home, the watch pipes up, beeping a shrill call, an unhelpful reminder of what will happen if time runs out before you make it back.

You resist the urge to check the time – you know you’re already behind schedule, but you don’t think about that.

You don’t think about tripping or the bats or how slow you are, and you certainly don’t think about getting caught, being torn limb from limb and eaten alive — just like Barb — don’t think about it, don’t think about it — don’t think just run!

You focus on your breathing, and you try to remember what Steve told you.

In and out. Deep, slow breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

Don’t gasp for air. Don’t hyperventilate. Don’t pass out — don’t trip.

Oh shit!

Your foot snags another tree root and for a second you imagine they must be sentient, lifting up to purposely slow you down like something out of The Wizard of Oz.

You always hated that movie.

You stagger, arms windmilling, legs kicking out – your palms kiss the ground but you don’t fall.

You keep running.

Beep beep — the goddamn watch is mocking you.

It’s got to be, because how else can time be passing so quickly when every bit of physical education you’ve ever endured has existed in a bizarre never-ending loop of slow motion.

Why is this so different?

Because you’re running for your goddamn life, Stupid.

Beep beep — Better pick up the pace.

Master of Puppets is still a distant sound, and despite how far you think you’ve come, you’ve still got so far to go.

It’s not getting any closer… why isn’t it getting any closer?

Slowly, the nagging pull of hideous reality creeps up and begins to whisper to you. You hear it over the rip and pull of your breathing, murmuring terrible secrets through the thunder of your footsteps, the hammering of your heart, the roaring of your blood, like poison in the ear.

It tells you all the things you don’t want to hear – it tells you you’re not going to make it.

Desperately, you try to find your bearings and locate yourself out in the dark without taking the time to look around. You can’t afford to take another tumble, but without looking you’re running with blinders on.

Everything is so different on this side, in the dark landmarks are only vaguely familiar and trees all look the same. That much is true up in the real world, but down here it is multiplied tenfold.

That voice is still whispering, telling you that somehow you’ve turned yourself around, that you’re headed away from the trailer and thats why the music isn’t getting any closer.

Suddenly, you can’t help but get the irrational sense that you are headed toward the Creel House instead of away from it, and it’s enough to send your heart rocketing up into your throat like it means to escape and abandon you to your ever slowing pace.

Somehow, cooler heads prevail, and you swallow back that fear like bile rising in your throat. You know you can’t afford the luxury of second-guessing yourself – not with hell snapping at your heels like this, so you dig in.

You run, and you trust, and you hope beyond hope that you’re headed in the right direction.

Fuck running, fuck Vecna and his shitty stupid bats, and fuck this fucking place.

There is no gradual end to the woods.

The tree line stands a stark barrier, still and silent until you shatter the illusion of peace. You burst through the trees, out into the open ground, and shockingly cold air that has you gasping out, like being submerged in a freezing pool.

Out of the woods, you are freed from the bone-crushing haze you hadn’t realized had descended upon you until it is gone. The open air fills you with a strange clarity, and suddenly, like lifting a veil, you can see – the edge of the trailer park lies beyond.

The music is loud now, loud enough that you can feel every chord striking in your back teeth.

You laugh out a loud, breathless thing that presents itself as much more a desperate shout than anything else. In the distance, you can almost see Eddie and Dustin, crouched atop the trailer.

Little victories are victories all the same, and you watch with something that could almost be misconstrued as glee as the bats shift up in one dark cloud of movement, suddenly much more interested in the sound that drew their attention in the first place. The potential for a larger, more appealing meal than the one you present.

Another beep yelps at you from your wrist, and this time you dare to steal a foolish glance at the watch. The numbers count down at a rapid pace, just as you imagined they would, pale glowing green signifying a head-on collision with your doom — t-minus sixty seconds, less than a minute to go.

You kick your knees up higher and throw your arms out in the hopes it might make some minute difference.

Must go faster… must go faster!

You can see them now, no real details, just the suggestion of figures perched atop the trailer, backlit with every angry flash of lightning.

You see Dustin crouched beside the amp, and you see Eddie thrashing against Sweetheart in time with the wailing screech of the solo you’ve long since stopped hearing over the roaring blood in your ears.

You’re in the home stretch — you’re going to make it.

You take another hard step, and without any sort of prelude to the danger awaiting the ground crumbles beneath you. Your attention snaps to your feet on instinct and your stomach bottoms out in what can only be described as pants-shitting terror as you realize too late that the road is gone.

Scratch that — the ground is gone, replaced instead with a yawning chasm of darkness, like a terrible grinning maw, splitting the land open to swallow you whole.

You gasp out a breath you can’t spare and try in vain to dig your back foot into the loamy brush that isn’t there, desperately hoping somehow, you’ll land on solid ground and not go cartwheeling into the abyss.

It’s always the hope that kills you.

Before you can react, gravity reaches up to snatch your forwardmost foot and drags you over the edge. Overhead, the swarm pays you no mind as you plummet, still hurdling on toward the deafening sound of Eddie living out his wildest Metal-God wet dreams.

Sweetheart wails out a keening cry of ecstasy on a high note, the sound is tinged with the faintest hint of a terrified shriek as you drop out of existence.

You fall, something reaches out and snags you, and just as quickly as your plunge begins, it ends.

You come to a hard, lurching stop, and your head snaps backward, cracking against something sharp and solid. It sends stars and colors skittering brightly across your vision before they are quickly banished by shadows creeping in like the tide, and you lay where you landed, dazed and spinning.

Don’t pass out, You tell yourself as you sink further and further into the darkness below, don’t pass out…

...

Beep beep — beep beep — beep beep.

The sound is a faint stabbing thing, prodding you back to life. You groan out a ragged sound as, slowly, you begin to come back to yourself, shifting and attempting to sit up to middling results.

Your head feels fat and swollen – it protests the way you attempt to shake your senses back into place with the bright bursts of an oncoming migraine. The harsh jerk of your head sends your brain buzzing frantically in your skull before bursting, leaving you terribly nauseous and with the vaguest sensation that you are spinning.

Beep beep — beep beep — beep beep.

It takes a very long moment for you to remember where you are and what happened to get you there.

You remember falling, the harsh start and stop of the motion, how you’d cracked your head on something when you landed — a rock maybe?

Everything hurts, but at least it’s an indicator that you’re not dead — now if only you could open your eyes. Your lids slide over your eyes like sandpaper and you are almost half convinced that you imagined the sensation when the darkness does not disperse. You blink, once, twice, three times to no avail – your vision does not clear, and slowly, you come to the terrifying realization that sometime in the last few minutes, you have gone inexplicably blind.

Beep beep — beep beep — beep beep.

You’d once seen a Dateline special about a man who was hit in the back of the head during a bar fight and had his retinas snap as a result — a one in a million chance, they’d called it, but the thought causes your stomach to heave all the same.

How far-fetched would it be to assume you could be that one in a million, considering the rotten turn of your luck over the past few days?

Oh God oh Christ! You think, opening your eyes as wide as they will go against the wall of black in a desperate attempt to kickstart your vision into working order.

Your mind screams at the thought of being stuck down at the bottom of some pit, dying down in the dark without even having the courtesy of seeing what kills you.

Suddenly, there is a flash to your left – you scream and recoil only to be met with another on your right as something flails pathetically in your peripheral vision.

After a heart pounding moment, you heave out a sigh of relief as you come to realize that it is only your hands, windmilling above you as you instinctively fight the gentle swaying of your body in what’s left of your momentum.

A cursory glance upward confirms what you knew all along, that you haven’t been struck blind, after all. In the intermittent flashes of light, you can see your dingy sneaker snagged in a gnarled swathe of roots and branches, jutting out from the side of the open earth, holding you suspended only a few feet down — thank fuck for that.

Beep beep — beep beep — beep beep.

Dangling upside down by one foot, staring into the impenetrable dark of an apparently bottomless chasm with little to no hope of escape is not the worst-case scenario, not by a long shot, but it’s certainly not ideal.

As you begin the arduous task of getting yourself upright again, you become aware of the hot bloom of blood spreading across your scalp from whatever you’d smacked it on.

Suddenly, you can’t help but imagine it dripping from the ends of your hair, down into the dark to pique the interest of something else – something ancient and terrible slumbering deep down in the dark.

Beep beep — beep beep — beep beep.

You remember then that there are other things to be afraid of down here, other beasties than the bats still wheeling overhead.

You don’t know what a Demogorgon is supposed to look like or whether it happens to live at the bottom of highly inconvenient chasms in the earth only to be summoned by the smell of fresh blood and stupid girls overexerting themselves, but you aren’t expressly keen on sticking around to find out.

You haven’t seen that movie, but you have no interest in starring in the sequel, and it is enough to light a fire under your ass … or over it, considering your upside-down state.

You twist and bend at the waist until you can catch a fist full of roots and begin the Herculean task of trying to navigate free of the tangle without losing your grip and dropping off into an inky black eternity.

Beep beep — beep beep — beep beep.

You try not to think about the last time you did a sit-up as your abs burn and your back creaks and you grunt out the effort of trying to pull yourself up and out of the darkness.

You twist and tug and finally — finally — manage to get yourself sitting upright again, and then you climb.

Fingers in the earth, hand over fist, you claw your way up and over the lip of the chasm and haul your sorry carcass out of the pit.

Beep beep — beep beep — beep beep.

Back on solid ground, you lay panting, shivering for the overexertion of your muscles and the way the dank air has settled on the sleek sheen of sweat coating every inch of your body.

You roll over onto your back and watch the bats wheel overhead. You keep breathing, the storm keeps on raging, and very slowly the horror of this strangely peaceful moment begins to dawn on you.

It’s quiet.

Holy shit – holy fucking shit, it’s quiet.

“Oh, shit!” You gasp, lurching up with enough force that your head threatens to start spinning again. “No, no no no no!”

There’s no music, no screaming orgasm of a guitar solo, no voices shouting your name and urging you to get up off your ass. There’s nothing but the incessant beeping of the watch.

You’re on your feet before your body has anything to say about it, hands fisted in your hair as you scan the horizon, desperately searching the trailer tops for any signs of human life.

Dustin and Eddie are gone.

Your heart jumps up into your throat and lodges itself there before beginning to swell, choking you and stopping you from making any sort of sound.

The trailer is teeming with bats, not a scrap of the dingy tin siding is visible beneath the writhing mass of bodies — even under the squirming mess of fear that your brain has devolved into, you know you couldn’t get within ten feet of that place if your life depended on it, which it does.

You missed your window. The bats beat you back to the trailer, and that means you’re trapped out here.

When your heart finally slips back down into your chest, it settles there with a deafening thump and pulls loose the stopper on your bottled fear — you’re filling your lungs before you’re even aware of what you’re about to do.

“EDDIE!” You scream, your voice breaking in a potent combination of desperation and sheer volume.

You don’t remember a time you’ve ever screamed that loud – you’ve long since been conditioned to stay quiet and well-behaved by parents who were far too busy to have a rowdy child on their hands, but desperate times call for desperate fucking shouts, and it leaves your vocal cords raw and trembling.

There is nothing but the hollow sound of your voice echoing back at you, less muted than it had been back at the Creel place, but no less haunting.

It’s a very foolish thing to do, especially when only moments before you’d been gripped in the very rational fear that there are other things skulking about — things much more likely to hear you than Eddie will be, closed up in the trailer a hundred yards off, but you’re just about ready to come apart at the seams watching the bats overtake the structure.

You suddenly feel hideously exposed.

You fist your hand in the front of your shirt, clawing at the space where your heart ought to be, where you can feel it beating against your ribs as you feel the black grip of panic closing in on you.

You know what you’re supposed to do, but the trailer is there – it’s right fucking there — and you can’t get to it.

You spin around in aimless circles, looking for somewhere to go, some way around this bullshit hole in the ground and the bats that will surely tear you to pieces once they notice you standing there, and you come up empty.

There’s nothing you can do, no way to get Eddie’s attention without alerting the bats… you’re supposed to go to the van…

And then you remember the walkie-talkie.

Your mind detaches from your body as you reach for it and find nothing but air. It’s not slung across your body like it had been only moments before, a constant companion bouncing against your hip and digging deeper and deeper into the bruise it made with every step you took from the Creel House to here.

Your stomach drops into your ass, and you feel like you’re going to be sick as you realize it’s in the pit.

Gravity must have taken it when you fell, taking with it any hope of communication, of rescue. You stand frozen, staring into that terrible darkness that your eyes refuse to adjust to. Its churns and writhes and remains impenetrable, unknowable, and you feel your hands curl tighter in on your chest.

Suddenly, you’re six years old again, trembling in the aftershocks of a nightmare and facing the immense darkness of the hallway that leads to your parents’ bedroom.

Salvation is right there, and you can’t get to it.

And then the darkness speaks.

In a moment of profound panic, your mind goes hideously blank and your name ekes up out of the pit.

Look into the abyss and the abyss will look back …

The noise comes again, strangely familiar in a way that makes your skin crawl, until you realize why.

It takes a long, terrifying moment to realize that your name is not being spoken by some kind of horrible eldritch beast – it’s coming from the radio – it’s coming from Eddie.

A bloody red flash of lightning reaches as far down into the dark as it dares and there you see it. The walkie-talkie, hanging by its strap, clinging on to a particularly gnarled root as it sways under its own weight — suddenly, there’s still a chance.

You drop instantly to your belly and inch forward, resting your chin on the lip of the crevasse and spitting dirt as you extend your reach for the boxy piece of tech. You’ve got to get it, but you’re not about to go any further back into the pit then you absolutely must — you reach for the thing, waggling your fingers like somehow, it’s going to Go-Go-Gadget extend them far enough to snag it, but it’s no use.

Your arms aren’t long enough, and the walkie remains far out of your reach.

Something strikes you — raking talons come down to tear across the top of your head to snag your hair.

Bats… how could you have forgotten the bats?

It wrenches you backward, tearing from you a loud cry of alarm before you jerk free of its claws. You briefly entertain the notion of abandoning the radio and heading for the hills, but if Eddie is going to save you, you’re going to tell him what’s happening, so against your better judgment and every natural instinct you have, screaming at you to RUN, you scramble forward again, desperately reaching for the radio all while doing your best to brace against the monsters wheeling overhead.

You’re not nearly close enough to reach the thing, but you’ve come too far to give up on it.

Your name comes up from the pit again, garbled and half cut off in the static of the interference of this place.

“–o to– an!” The walkie commands you.

Caution be damned, you push out further than before, bracing your hips over the crumbling edge of the earth and extending your arm far past its reach, trusting in some higher power that you will not go tumbling into that great expanse.

You wince under the way your shoulder clicks painfully on the edge of hyperextension, and you reach reach reach as that same garbled command is fed through a paper shredder and out from the walkie-talkie, Eddie imploring you to do something.

“Go–t– th– va–!”

Your fingers brush the strap once, twice, three times. You teeter further than is rightly wise and hook a finger in the Mylar just as the ground shifts beneath you again. You blink back visions of toppling forward, of things rising from the earth with grabbing hands to drag you down into the depths, and you close your fist, scrambling backward just as more of the loamy earth gives way.

You don't even wait to catch your breath before you bring the walkie up to your mouth, pressing the button on the side and shouting down the line.

“Eddie help me I can’t get to you the road is gone and the bats are everywhere I don’t know what to do!”

The second you take your thumb off the button, your instructions come screaming over the radio, loud and clear.

“Go to the van!” Eddie shouts, “RUN!”

You’re only granted a microsecond to wallow in the despair of that command before another one of the bats strikes the ground hard beside you – a big one, easily the size of a golden retriever, scrambling forward with a toothy screech as it reaches for you.

You scream, pushing up with a desperate gasp, and bolt back into the trees, back the way Eddie showed you on the other side.

It doesn’t take long to get through to that lonely stretch of highway. There sits the van, just as Eddie had promised it would be, though suddenly looking much more like a tired sagging animal on this side than the crouching beast you know so well.

Time is stuck down here, he’d said, it’s still November ‘83, he’d said.

Somehow, the van doesn't seem to have gotten that message.

It’s long abandoned, listing hard to the right on flat tires. It’s caked in thick layers of dirt and grime and wrapped in a constricting swathe of vines that reminds you far too much of a snake strangling its prey than you’re comfortable with, considering you intend to barricade yourself in the belly of the sad creature before you.

You don’t have time to ask whether this is actually a good idea or not, because the bats are swarming, snapping at your heels, whipped into a frothy tizzy over the trailing scent of freshly spilled blood and fleeing prey.

You hit the van at a flat sprint, crashing into the side panel with a bang as you slap your open palms against it in a desperate search for the handle. You don’t find it until you’ve circled halfway around to the back door, and even then, it takes several hard tugs to pry the thing open.

A bat strikes the panel beside your head, and then another, cracking the glass and startling you into screaming as you crank the door open as far as you dare and squeeze through the gap.

You slam the door and throw your body across the truck bed in one swift movement, colliding heavily with the back of the driver’s seat and curling in on yourself, watching the hazy shadows of dozens of little bodies come crowding together in the spot where you were just standing, blocking out any semblance of light there is in this place.

Your body throbs with adrenaline and burns in a hundred different places where the woods tore at your skin and clothes, all while your heart hammers against your ribcage like it means to burst forth. Dark spots and flecks of light burst in the dark and you sit there gasping for air, just like Steve had warned you not to. Your head swims and suddenly you can’t help but get the sensation that you’re swaying.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you know you’ve strayed the line into hyperventilation, and that you’re going to pass out if you don’t manage to slow your breathing.

If you pass out you’re dead, you got that?

You swallow hard against the copper you can suddenly taste flecking up from the back of your throat and pull your knees up to your chest, squeezing your eyes shut and channeling all your limited focus into taking deep, steadying breaths, just the way you’d practiced.

Deep breath, in through the nose. Out through the mouth. Rinse and repeat until you don’t feel like you’re this close to fainting any longer.

It doesn’t work so well with your lungs spasming under duress and refusing to inflate again.

Then you can hear the crackling sound of someone calling your name over the radio.

You fumble frantically in the dark for the walkie-talkie, hearing the sound of your name getting a little more desperate with every passing moment. When you finally get your hands on it, you snatch it up and press the plunger.

“I’m here,” you gasp, “I’m here.”

“No, you’re not!” Dustin fires back, “Where the hell are you?”

You open your mouth to try and explain, but before you can get a word out, Eddie’s voice comes ringing frantically over the line.

“What happened? Baby– what happened?”

You don’t get the chance to answer him before something hits the side of the van with enough force to rattle the windows and send it swaying on its creaking shocks.

For half a moment you don’t dare to breathe as you’re flooded with images of the constricting vines stirring to life and crushing the van flat with you trapped inside.

You realize with a sickening start that not only was this very bad idea, but that your safe haven is very likely about to become a corroded steel coffin. And then it happens again, and again, boom after thunderous boom like being caught in a torrential hailstorm, or a fucking tornado. The van rattles and rocks and shifts violently as dozens of bodies strike the steel paneling, hitting the vehicle on all sides.

When the first of the indents begin to implode inward, you throw yourself to the bed of the van, scrambling to hide in the filthy blankets and things that belong to an Eddie that doesn’t exist down here.

Then, without much in the way of warning, the left-hand side of the van caves in entirely and splits open. There are suddenly dozens of little creatures there, fighting to get through to you, fighting each other, and the sides of the torn metal digging into their ugly little faces as they try and force their way through.

You watch in horror as the jagged edge peels back their skin, flaying them alive and spilling their thick, black blood, and they just keep coming, thrashing, and reaching and screaming like they don’t even feel it, like they’re just that desperate to get to you.

You scramble backward, but before you can realize that there’s nowhere to go, the van is struck again with that same force. This time, the van rocks up on two wheels, sending you sprawling as it lists hard to the right. With a sad and ominous groan, gravity takes it, sending you scrambling for purchase, reaching out to brace yourself against something – anything – as the van tips and begins to roll.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The commotion that comes pouring over the radio is absolutely terrifying, like nothing Dustin has ever heard. A roaring static boom of crunching, creaking metal, and breaking glass, intercut with a healthy dosage of angry static and the chewed-up sound of your screaming.

Dustin feels like he’s going to break into a thousand tiny pieces as he stands paralyzed, listening to the soundtrack of something terrible and violent happening to you. He doesn’t know what to do – he’s got to do something, help you somehow, but his mind has gone blank.

For all he knows he could be listening to you die, and he can’t do anything about it – he’s got to save you, but he knows there’s nothing he can do.

You didn’t make it…

Dustin’s fingers are trembling as he fists them into the gray sweater he’d shrugged into for battle and tries to convince himself that you’re okay.

Maybe it’s not even you making those awful sounds, maybe you lost the radio somewhere, escaped whatever the hell is happening on the other end of the line, and are headed back to them as they speak. Maybe you just got sidetracked and you’re about to come pounding down the back door, screaming to be let in.

Maybe he’ll wake up in a second and discover this was all just a terrible dream and none of this ever happened. Chrissy’s not dead, Vecna’s not real, and everything is sunshine lollipops and rainbows.

Maybe maybe maybe…

After a moment that feels like an eternity, the sounds finally stop, and then there is nothing but white noise – Dustin can’t breathe.

Eddie hits the button on the side of the walkie, cutting the static and speaking your name into the silence. His voice is uneven and immediately betrays the facade of his calm.

Nothing.

Once more, he presses the button and calls your name, same tone – same wavering lilt in his voice.

“–come in…”

Static.

Dustin can’t decide if he’s about to vomit or burst into tears.

“Eddie–” he starts, unable to keep his voice from quavering with emotion, “What—what do we do?”

But Eddie doesn’t hear him, or he just plain ignores him, and Dustin’s heart is in his throat for it. For lack of anything better to do, he asks again.

“Eddie, what do we do?”

Silence.

The muscles in Eddie’s jaw flex as he grits his teeth, and the walkie-talkie begins to tremble in his hand. He inhales sharply in a highly disturbing way that leaves Dustin suddenly half afraid that he’s about to come apart at the seams.

He hates this he hates this he hates this — why did Eddie tell you to run? Why couldn’t you make it back to them? Why won’t Eddie just talk to him?

Dustin hiccups and seizes Eddie by the sleeve of his jacket, tugging hard on him, like somehow, it’s going to snap him out of whatever trance he’s in, like somehow it’s going to bring you back.

“Eddie–!” He cries.

Eddie wrenches his arm free and shushes him harshly, calling your name once more, louder this time, failing entirely to keep his voice steady.

He has officially lost his cool.

“–Come in, Baby… come in, come in, come in Goddammit! We really need a sign of life here…” he pleads, growing more frantic by the second, fisting his hand in his hair and breathing hard like he can’t get enough air, “I-I need— I need a sign. Just give me a sign – just tell me you’re okay … Baby, please—”

BOOM.

Their heads snap up toward the sound like meerkats moving in tandem as an air of doom settles heavily over the room, slicing through any kind of premature settling grief.

They’d been so worried about what was happening with you that they’d conveniently forgotten to be afraid for their own lives. Just because they are inside does not mean they are anywhere within the arena of safety.

As if to punctuate that fact, outside, the screen door begins to rattle loudly on its hinges like it’s caught in a hurricane. It thrashes and whines against the barrage of whatever is happening just outside the door before there is the scream and pop of it being torn away entirely.

The bats are through their defenses.

“Eddie?”

“...Oh, shit…”

BOOM.

The front door rattles under the duress of the bats all hurling their weight against it, scratching and clawing and beating their wings in a frantic attempt to get in.

“Eddie!”

“Oh, shit!”

The clock is ticking. Phase Two is now in effect, and it’s time for the pair of them to get the hell out of Dodge, but you’re not here, and you’re not answering.

BOOM.

They’re swarming the trailer, scrambling all over the reinforced tin siding, and scratching at the windows.

They have to get out of here. They’re going to die if they stay, but they can’t just leave you. Steve explicitly told them not to be heroes, but somebody has to do something.

BOOM.

Dustin never should have brought you into this, he should have left you alone, kept you far removed from this place and everything that goes with it. You have no business in the Upsidedown, he has no business in the Upsidedown. What the hell does he think he’s doing here? He’s not a hero, he barely made it through the last three times this happened, with the Demogorgon, with D’art, the Mindflayer – he’s just a kid… then again, kids always make it out of horror movies, don’t they?

BOOM.

Then again, maybe not.

“What do we do?” Dustin yelps, flinching hard against the way the door bends inward ever so slightly before snapping back into shape, “—Eddie, what do we do?!”

BOOM.

This time the sound comes from the other end of the trailer, from Eddie’s bedroom – the ceiling is shaking.

Before Dustin can stop to consider why that is happening and what that means for them, Eddie is a blur, sprinting down the hall faster than Dustin has ever seen any one person move.

He reaches the open door the moment the ceiling caves in.

Suddenly, there is a mess of leathery writhing bodies fountaining down into the room like water rushing from a burst pipe. He is vaguely aware of screaming as a flurry of wings and talons rear up in the room beyond.

They’re in the house. Dustin thinks, Jesus Christ, we’re gonna die down here…

Eddie reaches for the doorknob, and something reaches back, rearing up and knocking into him hard enough to send him sprawling backward.

For a terrifying moment, Eddie stays down and Dustin stands frozen, watching with unbridled terror as he thrashes and writhes beneath the thing that has him pinned – a bat, easily the size of a bulldog — snapping and biting and doing everything in its power to make a meal out of him.

Dustin hasn’t even realized he’s even moved before he watches his foot collide heavily with the bat. Its features cave in and squelch grossly around the toe of his sneaker before bouncing off and back into the room.

He has no idea how or when he crossed the room, but suddenly he’s got his hands in Eddie’s jacket and is trying to pull him back down the hall.

He can’t save you, wherever you are, but he can save Eddie — or at least he can try.

Eddie surges forward out and grips the knob, whipping the door shut with a heavy slam before falling backward onto his ass, taking Dustin down with him.

For half a moment, it’s all either of them can do but sit there on the floor in stunned silence, gasping for air.

Dustin’s still got his hands fisted in Eddie’s jacket, holding him to the spot where he’s half pressed against him, leaning back over him where he landed. He’s a lot heavier than he looks.

“Holy shit.” Eddie grinds out between breaths, “Christ, that was fucking nuts — did you see that?”

Dustin nods, though only because he can’t breathe well enough yet to speak.

When he fails to provide a verbal answer, Eddie twists around to look at him, eyes as wide as dinner plates and rolling in terror.

“Are you okay? You good?”

Dustin can’t decide how to answer that — no, he is absolutely not okay, but he’s alive, which is more than he thinks he can say for the bat he just spiked into the far corner of Eddie’s bedroom.

He opens his mouth to answer but the sound dies in his throat when he notices the thick trickle of blood bubbling up from a deep gash in Eddie’s forehead, oozing down to collect and drip from the end of his nose.

It turns Dustin’s stomach.

“You’re bleeding.” He gasps, more a general statement of gut-wrenching terror than anything else.

Eddie’s brows inch toward one another, disturbing the wound between them. He reaches up with a shaking hand and he wipes at the bridge of his nose – his fingers come away stained crimson, and it leaves a hollowed-out look splashed across his features, the same one Dustin can feel gnawing at his insides.

That thing went for his face … it tried to eat his goddamn face.

BOOM.

The front door heaves under the until-then-forgotten duress of more bats, still trying to get at them, and wrenches them back into the moment. There’s no time to assess the gravity of the situation, just how well and truly fucked they before the bedroom door shudders – a violent response to the question before that sees Eddie scrambling backward an inch.

Dustin doesn’t blame him. It’s well past time they got the hell out of here.

All around them, the doors continue to rattle on their hinges – bedroom door, front door, and now the bonus of the side door, all bending and creaking, somehow miraculously keeping their shapes under the violent battery of the things desperately trying to get in – the things that want to eat them.

Before Dustin realizes what’s happening, Eddie pulls him to his feet and back through the length of the trailer, and suddenly he’s standing bathed in a pool of golden light.

He flinches and recoils as something long and cylindrical hits him in the face — thankfully it’s only the bedsheet rope. He realizes with a start that he’s standing below the gate, looking up into the relative safety of the real world just beyond.

Yes, of course that’s where they should go, because that’s where the bats are normal sized and not inclined to eat faces, but suddenly there is the nagging press of the question: what are they going to do about the bats once they get up there?

How are they going to stop them from following them through?

“Go on,” Eddie says quickly, wiping hopelessly at the blood coating his face, all he does is smear it, “Get up there.”

Dustin just stands there, blinking back at him.

He’s frozen to the spot, unable for the life of him to make his legs move as he watches the blood bubble up from the wound in Eddie’s forehead and leak down into his eyebrow.

That thing went for his face. Jesus Christ, it literally tried to bite his face off! Things like that are not supposed to happen to them. Other people get killed – Barb and Mews, Bob Newby, Billy Hargrove and all the people who were assimilated by the Mindflayer, but not them — they’re kids in a horror movie, they’re supposed to be safe!

“Dustin–!” Eddie snaps, seizing him by the shoulders and shaking him, effectively cutting off the long tide of panicked blubbering Dustin hadn’t realized he’d devolved into, “Stop talking and climb the rope!”

When he still doesn’t react, Eddie takes matters into his own hands and gets under him, boosting the boy on his shoulders with only the slightest grunting effort.

One thing about Eddie is that he’s a lot stronger than he looks.

Dustin seizes the rope and clings to it if only so he won’t fall flat on his face.

“Get your ass up there, Henderson.” Eddie snaps from below, giving him a hard shove for good measure.

It makes the rope swing and Dustin is half surprised when it doesn’t disrupt the gravitational rift and cause the whole thing to come falling through.

It holds, because it has to, and Dustin climbs because there’s nothing else to do.

Hand over fist, inching up as quickly as he can while the thrashing against the doors intensifies.

He tells himself that this is all part of the plan, as terrible a plan as it suddenly seems. Stick to the plan. That’s what Steve said, no matter what, stick to the plan… and don’t get killed – Eddie added that little zinger out of what Dustin had assumed was fatalist humor, but right here at this moment, it’s the driving force to get him up that rope as fast as humanly possible.

Through one side and out the other, he flops gracelessly to the squeaking mattress below and tucks immediately into a barrel roll, clearing the way for Eddie to come crashing down after him – he never arrives.

The rope stands swaying — empty — and when he inches forward to look back through the gate, there Eddie remains, standing on the other side staring up at him – or is it down? He’s still not sure, not that it really matters, because they don’t have time for him to sit and work that out.

“Let’s go – we gotta go!”

Something solid and clunky comes flying up/down through the gate, narrowly missing Dustin’s head and scaring the hell out of him. For half a terrifying moment, he thinks it must be a Demobat, screaming in to herald his violent and imminent death.

He lurches back as he follows the arc of the thing, then stands staring at it where it's landed — it takes him a moment too long to realize it’s the walkie-talkie.

It takes an even longer moment for him to realize that he doesn’t understand what’s happening.

“Eddie – what…?” Dustin begins, and then when he looks up, he sees the blade gripped in Eddie’s hand – his stomach heaves, “What are you doing?” the words barely manage to squeak their way out of Dustin’s throat — his tongue feels fat and clumsy in his mouth.

He knows exactly what Eddie is doing: he’s buying him a little more time, he’s going to get you from wherever the hell you’ve ended up — he’s making a big goddamn hero out of himself.

In the Upsidedown, with the doors rattling on all sides, still bleeding from where one of the Demobats had just tried to make a meal out of him, Dustin watches helplessly as Eddie seizes the rope with his free hand.

“Eddie — don’t—!”

He slashes out and there is the quick sound of tearing fabric as the bed sheets split. For a brief moment, it hangs suspended, quivering as the dual gravity struggles to decide what to do. When they finally pull away from each other, torn ends trail like extended fingers, desperately reaching for one another.

The rope drops over Dustin’s hand and down to the floor in a smooth, cotton pile, and he watches helplessly as Eddie gives him one final look before disappearing.

Dustin scrambles for something to do, somewhere to go. Somehow, he’s got to get back up there, but the predicament of how to ascend twelve feet into the ceiling without the use of a rope or ladder is an impossible one to solve.

He’s got to do something, he’s got to save Eddie — what was the point of the last week if Eddie gets himself killed down there? What was the point of any of this if he can’t save him?

In a fit of desperation, Dustin seizes the walkie talking and jams the button with his thumb, screaming down the line for you — you’ll know what to do, you always know what to do — you’ll fix this.

Dustin’s voice is frantic as he screams your name, and begs you to pick up — Eddie didn't follow him through the gate.

Eddie’s going to die down there.

#cruel summer #cruel summer fic #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #stranger things fic #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson imagine #joseph quinn eddie munson #joseph quinn fic #stay tuned for the next chapter it's coming right up

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casanovawrites · 5 months ago

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FROM season 2 sentence starters (part 2)

we can’t have new people stealing what little food we have.

you fucking stabbed me!

they probably all think you’ve gone crazy.

you’re talking to a figment of your imagination. but hey, sometimes crazy is the most rational response you could have.

you tried. not every story gets a happy ending.

it’s real, and i’m fucking terrified.

you’re okay. you’re okay. look at me.

i’m not really good with blood.

i can feel them. even if i can’t see them, i can feel them.

you wanna play games? i’m right here. i’m ready.

i told my mom and dad i wasn’t scared. but i am.

i’m a little scared, too. but guess what? that’s a good thing.

fear is something that lives inside us, just like hope or joy or love. they’re all things that make us special. but fear might be the most important one of all because without fear, we wouldn’t know how to be brave. fear is what makes us heroes.

i should’ve listened to you. i should’ve trusted you.

you’re about to willingly bring something evil into your home.

i know you want all this to make sense, i know you want there to be a rational explanation.

what’s the point of being friends if we can’t BE friends?

you’re shivering. here.

it’s dead. how is it going to hurt us?

all i do here is put broken things back together.

yeah, i’m scared. i’m fucking terrified. that’s why i need you in there with me. i can’t do this without you.

we’re in this together, remember? you and me.

i love you. and all i want is for you to be happy. but i can’t watch you do something that might get you killed.

what if this place is trying to torture me, mock me?

we have seen a lot of horrible, impossible shit here. we just assume anything impossible that happens here is bad.

you met the love of your life in the middle of your worst fucking nightmare.

a miracle is just the other side of a nightmare.

you’re not being punished. maybe this is just a scary place where fucked up shit happens, and there’s no explanation why.

when things change here, it’s usually bad.

this was our chance. it couldn’t have been for nothing.

this place, it’s like as soon as you start to think, ‘you know, maybe today i won’t go insane,’ something new comes along, and it’s like, ‘hey, wait ’til you see this!’

i’ve just accepted that i’m never going to be comfortable again.

i’m gonna be all right, you know? you don’t have to worry about me.

what if the answers are out there, we just didn’t go out far enough?

there’s no place for me here. no one even wants me here.

there’s a difference between going out there and running away from here.

is it just physically impossible for you not to be an asshole for 10 minutes?

what this place did to you, it isn’t fair.

people shouldn’t go looking for answers. they don’t come back.

bad things happen here no matter what.

i’m afraid to remember.

i got so used to being scared, it just felt normal.

are you honestly saying that our fucking dreams can hurt us now?

things here feel different now. they feel wrong.

this place feeds on our pain. but what if it does more than that?

i’m not planning on dying here tonight.

i’m not going to lose another person to ‘probably.’

i’m not listening to this shit all fucking night, okay?

everything is a story, and we’re the ones who decide how it ends.

i know it’s painful for you, seeing me every day.

i know what i’ve done. i’ll never be able to take it back. i ruined people’s lives.

i didn’t ask for any of this.

you think you’re the only one who lost something? i’ve lost everything.

everything i was, and everything i could have been, is gone.

this place destroyed the only person i ever get to be, and i’m tired. i’m tired of being afraid, and i’m tired of being ashamed.

i don’t want to be here anymore. i don’t want to be your monster anymore. i just want it to be over.

it’s like trying to imagine a jigsaw puzzle without all the pieces.

we can’t just sit here hoping for the best.

i don’t need a fucking reminder of what’s at stake.

why do people ask if i’m okay, when the answer’s obvious?

let’s get married. today. we have no idea what’s going to happen.

if this is the end, then i want it to end with you.

how far are you willing to go to find answers?

you know what, motherfucker? i’m not here to pray.

all i am is a dumb motherfucker who keeps getting people killed.

is this how it ends?

i actually allowed myself to believe that there was a plan to all of this. that there was something we were meant to do here.

we’re all going to die here, and all of this would’ve been for nothing.

did i say give up? this might be the last few hours any of us get.

life is a journey through the unknown. though your eyes and mind sometimes deceive you, your heart will never lie.

my heart’s belonged to you since the moment i met you. you’re the love of my life, for as long as that life may last.

there has been so many times here when i felt like i was stumbling in the dark. but each and every time, you were the light that guided me through.

you are my love. you are my home. you are my light in dark places.

they’re all going to die screaming.

hope is what makes you willing to suffer.

it’s not your fear that feeds the forest. it’s hope.

#from sentence starters #rp sentence starters #rp ask meme #ask meme #meme #*#open sentence starters

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simple-seranade · 2 years ago

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so i wrote more of that shapeshifter!jimmy concept- team rancher fans (/p or /r) come get y’all’s content

(part one here! shoutout to @pixiemage for the inspo to add some team rancher, apologies for the tag if it is unwanted-)

TW: body horror, panic attack, lots of anxiety

Tango is a being of emotion.

Whether the fires of passion and rage that consumed him in the Life games, to the ice cold loneliness he felt after the fact when he realized his soulmate was gone, the man has had plenty of practice in letting his feelings flow through him, empower him, become the fuel that kept him going.

So when he receives Jimmy’s message in the world chat, every single alarm bell in his head sounding that something was wrong, Jimmy is in trouble, go help him, go find your rancher…

Well, Tango felt his feet hit the sand before he even had the conscious thought of going to find the sheriff.

He can’t help the feeling of worry that pools in his gut as he nears the town, ignoring the gritting sensation of the wind-tossed sand flying in his face, his clothes, his hair. His mind is frantic and flickering as the possibilities flare to life, all the groundless worst case scenarios painting a baseless picture of ash and ruin.

The smell of singed sand rises in the air, causing Tango to pause, looking back at the course he was taking. A series of smoking footprints trail behind him, some flames still burning in his wake despite the fact the only fuel was the sand and the hot desert sun. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he attempts to steady his breathing.

He has no reason to be getting this upset, no valid explanation for the uncanny fear that’s taken residence in his chest. He shouldn’t even be worried, for void’s sake. After all, Jimmy was talking after a few days of radio silence, and nothing he had said was wrong, or bad, or even troublesome, but for some reason the ice blue flames on Tango’s head were roaring like a bonfire three times their size.

Maybe if he just… reads the message again, he’ll calm down. He can rationalize, go check in Jimmy without the threat of accidentally burning the town to the ground, and just catch up with the sheriff. It had been a while since they’ve gotten the chance to chat, Tango getting caught up in helping FWhip with his Empire and Jimmy’s never-ending feud with Joel.

Tango hums absentmindedly as he walks, pulling up the world chat on his communicator.

Jimmy: Renovations in Tumble Town. For safety purposes, visitors are banned until further notice.

See? Nothing to worry about. He was fine, there was nothing wrong with Jimmy. Tumble Town was just changing, so he was probably busy. Everything was fine.

Someone should notify Tango’s emotions of that message, because the pit of worry in his gut only grows. Whoever said anxiety was a rainy emotion must not have known what they were talking about, because the smoke pillaring into the sky from the icy blue flames in his hair seemed to perfectly match the hot sparks of panic in Tango’s chest.

He really needs to find Jimmy before he sets the entire desert ablaze over paranoia.

Because that’s all it could be. Paranoia. He was getting worried over nothing. He can’t feel Jimmy’s pain anymore, he has no reason, no way of knowing the sheriff is hurting or in any kind of danger. Then again, it also meant he isn’t sure Jimmy isn’t, either.

He had never missed the soulbond more.

The wave of relief that crashes over him when the familiar walls of Tumble Town rise in the distance is hardly enough to quell the burning emotion inside of him, but it does dim the glow to a more reasonable proportion. Nothing is on fire- well, aside from Tango himself- and no screams are to be heard. In fact, it's a typical quiet desert day.

Nothing like Tango would expect from a place undergoing heavy renovations.

He tries to keep himself in check as he nears Tumble Town, doing his level best to not let his growing unease affect him. Everything is normal, any traces of the claimed construction nowhere to be seen. The only out of the ordinary occurrence is the fact that, despite the sun barely even beginning to dip past its midday point in the sky, the lights in the sheriff office are completely off. Jimmy usually keeps the lights on to let people know they could come in and receive help from the sheriff if they needed it.

Tango’s traitorous brain considers truly for the first time that something is actually wrong. That he isn’t imagining things. That Jimmy…

He needs to find his rancher.

The blaze hybrid takes a deep breath, steadying his nerves. “Jimmy? Where are you?”

Silence.

A fiery man’s sinking heart.

Then, so soft it was nearly imperceptible, a sniffle.

Tango swings his head around, attempting to pinpoint the origin of the sound. His blue eyes land on the dark sheriff’s office, and his heart sinks as a small, pitiful whine comes from inside. He isn't sure he’s ever moved faster than he does in that moment, the door opened and shut before he even processed the fact that his feet were moving, creaking against the wooden planks. “Jimmy? Jimmy, are you ok? What’s-“

“Tango, you shouldn’t be here. It’s not safe.” A hoarse whisper sounds from the back corner of the room, shrouded in shadows from the lack of lights. Tango fights back a cringe at the sound of the voice he knew so well, which was oddly lifeless and wooden.

The blaze hybrid takes a step towards where the sheriff is, brightening the room slightly as the icy blue fire that partially made him fought back the dark.The figure of his past soulmate is huddled against the wall, features still too dim to make out. He is also, worryingly, very, very small, the size of a stuffed animal instead of a man. He takes another step. “I was worried. It’s been a while since we’ve talked, and I just wanted to see-“

“STOP!” The pure fear in the sheriff’s voice causes Tango to freeze. “Don’t come any closer, leave, you need to leave-“ Jimmy’s voice hitches, his breath becoming more shallow and frantic.

Ice cold panic shoots through Tango’s veins. Jimmy- Jimmy is scared. His rancher is terrified, on the verge of a panic attack, he has to help. He takes a shuddering breath, steadying himself and doing his best to keep his flames under control as he sits in front of the sheriff.

“Jimmy, I need you to breathe with me, ok? Just listen to my breathing, do your best to copy it.” He inhales loudly, counting to four in his head before holding it. Then, slowly, he exhales, fighting to keep it at a reasonable pace when he was panicking as well.

Jimmy sucks in a breath, but it catches in his throat as he chokes back a sob. Tango ignores the pang in his heart at the sound, continuing the breathing pattern.

It takes an agonizing fifteen minutes for the sheriff to be able to breath, and another five before either of the men are able to break the silence.

“Jimmy…”

“I’m fine.” The sheriff interrupts. Tango can see the small lawmaker rub furiously at his eyes with the heels of his hands before freezing, lowering them again. “You can go now.”

“You were just having a panic attack, Jimmy. I’ll give you some space if you want me to, but… I just want to know you’re ok. Just-“ He sighs, wringing his hands nervously. “You’re my rancher, and I know I haven’t been around much, but I still care.”

He keeps his gaze on his hands, fully expecting Jimmy to implore him to leave. What right did he have to still be here? Yeah, he and Jimmy were close, but Jimmy was clearly trying to be alone, to distance himself from him and the others on the server.

He ignores how that thought makes him even less inclined to leave the sheriff alone.

Just as he’s about to stand up, apologize, leave, do something, he feels a small tug on his cloak. He looks down, and right there is Jimmy.

It has to be Jimmy, and that’s what makes Tango’s heart break.

It breaks because instead of just a small version of the man he’s fought by, lived by, died by, he was… wrong.

That was the only way Tango can describe it. The only way he can possibly put into words the way his stomach twists as he takes in the sight of glassy lifeless eyes, of stitches pulled tightly into plush skin, of the long ring-tipped string sprouting from a back where there had once been beautiful golden wings before those had disappeared. The soft golden hair had given way to obnoxiously yellow string, just barely escaping from under the sheriff hat atop his head.

Dazed, the blaze hybrid reaches out, gently cradling the man’s the toy’s Jimmy’s face with his fingers. Instead of slightly stubbled skin, his fingers are met with the sensation of fabric. He can feel the stuffing underneath, even though he’s barely applying any pressure.

“Tango-“

“Who did this to you?” Tango growls, unable to stop his fire from brightening and raging, so much so he had to lean forward to make sure he didn’t set the wall ablaze. His vision is tinged with a vibrant sky blue, his thoughts racing as furyprotectivenessragecare surges through him, because someone’s turned Jimmy into the very thing he had been protesting this entire time, and when he finds them Tango is going to make sure they feel the burning of a thousand suns-

“Tango, calm!”

The familiar voice snaps reality back into place with the faint memory of sunny farms and peaceful farm animals. The blaze hybrid blinks away the remnants of blue clouding his vision, gaze settling on the small sheriff in front of him. Small plush hands were on his shoulders, and those glassy eyes stared up at Tango with a slightly pained look that was no doubt only a small part of what he was really feeling.

“Tango, I know this is upsetting, but there’s no use in raging. It won’t change anything.” The pure resignation in Jimmy’s voice nearly breaks Tango’s heart all over again

The blaze hybrid shudders, trying to rein in his emotions. “Sorry. I- I just- how did this happen?”

Jimmy laughs, a hollow and humorless sound. “No idea. I changed a few days ago, finally regained enough control over my limbs to message the world chat today. Turns out typing and using a communicator without bones is hard. Who knew?”

Tango’s eyes only widen in horror as the sheriff talks. “Oh, Jimmy…”

“And I probably should have seen this coming, if the Life games were anything to go by, I apparently don’t get to control these things because the universe hates me, but- but it hurt, it hurt so bad-“ He blinks furiously, eyes dry. “And I can’t even- I can’t even cry, Tango, and you know more than anyone how much of that I did the first time.”

The memories of tear soaked sheets mingling with the blood and feathers strewn about surface in Tango’s mind, along with the haunting sobs as the wings tore their way through Jimmy’s back.

Those were just wings. The entirety of Jimmy’s body had gone through that level of change. Alone.

Oh void.

“But yeah, that’s- that’s the story. The Toy Story, one could say. I’m sorry you had to see me like this, I-“

Jimmy is cut off as he’s pulled haphazardly into a hug, suddenly surrounded by warmth and comfort and Tango.

“I am so sorry.”

The sheriff grips tightly onto the arms around him with what little strength his plush arms and hands have to offer. “Why on earth are you apologizing? You’ve done nothing to apologize for.”

“I left you alone, Jimmy. I got so caught up in my work at FWhips and I haven’t gotten to talk to you and you went through so much hurt, my rancher, and I’m so sorry.”

How does someone respond to that? How does someone tell a person, a friend, a companion who was crying their eyes out, that their absence was understandable, even if their presence would have been the most beloved thing in the world? How does one break the news that the universe was trying to break him piece by piece, and it was no use shedding tears over his inevitable fall?

Jimmy doesn’t know how to do that, so instead he hugs the man tighter, trying to fit all the unspeakable words and pain and grief and resignation and acceptance into the grasp of his hands.

“I forgive you.” Jimmy murmurs, feeling Tango’s breath hitch against him.

“You will never have to go through that alone again. You wont have to do any of this alone.”

The sheriff’s breath stutters, and phantom tears he knows he can no longer shed gather in his eyes. “I- I- Tango, you can’t. You have more important things to do-“ more important people to spend time with “-and- and as much as I hate it, you… you have to head back to Hermitcraft eventually.” The thought that Scar would be leaving him, Tango would be leaving him, everyone he had on his side, it’s been enough to drive Jimmy mad. Still, he doesn’t have any plans yet to keep them there, any plans to convince them to stay, please, please don’t leave him all alone again, don’t make him fight the world alone, he can’t bear it.

“You’re hurting. I’ve seen how they’ve treated you with the whole toy thing, I’m not leaving you to face that alone. Besides, I don’t think I’ve gotten to officially stay in that house you’ve built me, which is a shame because it’s lovely.”

“But Hermitcraft! You have things there you can’t just abandon, Tango! You shouldn’t pick me over what you guys have been trying to get back to all this time.”

Tango slips his fingers under Jimmy’s chin, guiding his gaze up to him. “Jimmy. Do you want me to stay with you?”

More than anything. I would let you set the world ablaze if it meant I could have someone in my corner, someone who respects me, just please, don’t leave me.

“I couldn’t ask that of you.”

“But do you want to?”

Yes, almost more than I wish to be human again.

The sheriff looks down, filled with shame, because he can’t keep Tango here, he can’t, but he also can’t get his mouth to form the one word he needs it to to let Tango go on his way.

The silence is answer enough, and Jimmy can feel the arms around him tighten, and it should be uncomfortable by this point, but all he can think is warmcomfysafehere.

“Well then, I guess you can let the rest of the Empires know you have another deputy now.” The sheriff’s hat is lifted off his head, and a hand runs carefully through his knotted yarn hair.

“Tango-“

“Nope, no trying to convince me otherwise. The decision has been made.”

Tango expects more resistance, given his past soulmate’s infamous stubbornness, but instead he just hears a hushed, hopeful response.

“… You’ll really stay?”

“As long as you’ll have me.”

As Jimmy looks up, meeting the blaze hybrid’s eyes, he’s in shock of just how much genuine care is shining in them. He… he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand why Tango is treating him like this, when all he’s done is been horribly, horribly selfish, keeping him from all he cares about, wanting him to stay here with him because he’s horrible and a joke and no one respects him-

But- but Tango doesn’t… Tango doesn’t think he’s horrible, or laughable, or the antithesis to all things serious. Or, if he does… he’s still willing to stand by Jimmy, even as Jimmy becomes even more of a mockery of respect with every passing day.

Jimmy’s heart grew warm at the thought.

Maybe things would be ok after all. Together… together they can figure this out.

If Jimmy will have him.

“Always.”

———————

ok that was my first time writing tango so apologies if he was horrendously OOC-

but yeah i just love team rancher and this au and just. empires x hermitcraft brainrotting is STRONG

definitely gonna write more of this, so like. idk if y’all want a taglist but if you want to be added to one just lemme know, through an ask, reblog, comment, whatever floats your boat.

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warabola · 8 months ago

Note

Top 5 lore areas of interest?

Oh no this is actually so hard to narrow down. Oh man. How do I even start to put this succinctly.

If I was going to give a real quick and simple answer, trying to avoid anything too specific or abstract:

TL;DR

Death in the extended setting

The unknowable depths of the zee

The workings and implications of advanced skills (and the professions associated with them)

The impact of prolonged exposure to the Neath, and other non-Sol laws on biology/physiology

The history and politics of devils

(...That's still specific and abstract I'm sorry everyone.)

Longer version ft. incoherent rambling and heavy spoilers to follow:

Death: What the fuck is the far shore. Why can't I get a proper answer. If we're eaten by stars if we die where their light touches and eaten by the God Kings if we die under moonlight then what is the far shore and what is eating us over there. Why does the boatman exist. Why is the greatest shame there under the river and what was it. What are the implications of the rivers connected to Death, including the one through the Waswood? Why is there casually an alternative to death and why is it turning into a moth. Who was the Boatman prior to the Naturalist's arc? i'm going to scream.

The Zee: Alright. Fun warabola lore! I had thalassophobia at one point in time, particularly regarding the really deep seas. But I am nothing if not stubborn, and my response to any irrational fear is to try and rationalize it and confront it face on. It's likely not the best response to forcibly expose myself to the things that cause me distress but I was determined to do so and, well. Do nothing in halves. Hyperfixate on your worst nightmares, play Subnautica with an audience that goads you into going deeper even when you're panicking, learn everything you can, and you too could end up microdosing exposure therapy until your wires cross! Subnautica and Sunless Seas are now some of my favourite games. I'm quite obsessed with every new horrifying thing we discover about the zee. I cannot possibly get enough of it. Old Fitz and the diving bell part of Evolution are some of my favourite recent writing in Fallen London.

Advanced Skills/Professions: You might've seen me rambling about the implications of silverers and crooked crosses recently, but the advanced skills really are fascinating. The specific details and mechanics are especially interesting, be it Glasswork (Mind Palaces, the ability of Parabola to influence the waking world via dreams, the ability to travel through time and space as implied by Caduceus, the effects on a human body if the mirror is broken mid-traversing-) or Kataleptic Toxicology (bottling of the most specific and profound emotions, Station VII, Licentiates' capabilities, the fact that you train it/research it by repeatedly dosing yourself to death sdfsfdd). The mind-map I made regarding the connections between different professions and specializations is like the tip of the ranting iceberg.

The impact of prolonged exposure to the Neath etc etc: Who isn't interested in this. What are tomb colonists and frost moths. Why does that happen. What are the specific details regarding how the sun smites us if we step onto the surface. Why does Yearning, Burning happen. What is the effect of time-anachronism and can it be replicated by humans with the Rose Giveth. Answer me, Failbetter.

Devils: I will be honest, this is less about Hell and more about all the other weirdness and politics going on with them, as well as the history regarding Caduceus and how they're like chefs for the stars and Mount Palmerston and the Brazen Brigade and the Iron Republic and the physiology of Grand Devils and their unique language and how they're.... they're really fancy bees. They are so weird and interesting. Tell me more.

#ask games #i cannot even remember when this was from i'm so sorry #i love the deep lore and playing thought experiments regarding the mechanics and implications of these fantastic concepts #i could rant about any of these subjects at the drop of a hat

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illusionsofdreaming · 2 years ago

Text

falling hard, falling soft;

Notes: For this one I’ll leave my personal notes at the bottom. Please take note of the trigger warning.

Ft: Cale

tw: anxiety attack

As it sometimes does, it came without warning. You weren’t even sure what triggered it. Only that you were reading documents one moment and the next you felt were chills running down your spine.

Shit. You set down the papers by the side as you pushed your chair away from the table. Why? You clasped your hands together even as your breathing began picking up. You’ve had only a moment’s time to feel annoyance against the inconvenience of it all before the building fear washed over all sensible thought and clutched its invisible hands around your throat.

Breathe. A mantra you chanted to yourself even as your airway seemed to close on itself. I’m just imagining it. You’ve been through this before and you understood it’s just panic clouding your thoughts. You’re not actually suffocating but- it was getting really hard to breathe. Cold sweat broke out over your skin as you trembled in your seat.

Stop, stop. Feelings of dread rose over you like waves crashing against the shore, over and over again and you could feel yourself tipping, so close- barely held back by your last slips of rational thought. You were shaking so hard in your seat, you’re surprised you haven’t fallen over.

I can’t breathe- but why? Something so basic, so normal- you’ve been doing so well until now- so how could you have forgotten how to breathe? A hysterical laugh burst from your lips and your lungs seemed to constrict into itself.

Somewhere at the back of your mind you realised you should call for help. The attack came too suddenly, too violently and wasn’t something you could handle by yourself. They wouldn’t judge and they knew about your condition but somehow, letting them see you now, like this, struggling to do something as simple as breathing, was suddenly the worst possible thing that could happen.

You gasped, reeling on the threads of oxygen you could barely get past your closed airway. Your knees hit the ground as you shook, and shook, and shook.

You’re being irrational. A voice chides at the back of your mind, a part that’s detached from you writhing on the ground. You’re being dramatic. The guilt and shame was an iron grip around your chest slowly crushing you and that’s when you heard the door to your room open.

“__________, have you seen the papers-“

And then Cale’s there, hands on your shoulders as he propped you up, concern on his face as he held you, drawing you back from your downward spiral momentarily. I’m alright, I’m fine, you wanted to tell him but your ability to string words together had been the first to slip from you as shame took the front wheels of your thoughts. It was hard to decide whether you wanted his help or to kick him out for witnessing the ugliness of your vulnerability. Why did he have to come in now when all you could manage was gasp for how little air there was, and why can’t you just breathe-

“__________,” his brows creased as he grabbed your hand and placed it over his heart. “Listen. Breathe in. Breathe out.”

I can’t! You weren’t sure if you wanted to laugh, cry or scream at the absurdity of the situation. Can’t he see that’s what you’re trying to do?

His grip tightened around your wrist, the painful pressure focusing your attention briefly. “You can breathe, you’re hyperventilating now. You need to slow down. Follow me.”

Tears pooled at the corners of your eyes in frustration but with enormous effort, you began to fight for your breath, following Cale’s firm instructions as he guided you, breath by each agonising breath. Slowly, painfully, you fought to control your breathing, with every inhale that doesn’t end with a hitch, you began to regain lucidity and the grip around your throat began to loosen. Throughout the whole process, Cale stayed with you, never breaking his gaze from you and keeping a firm pressure against your hand.

As the adrenalin receded, the overwhelming exhaustion that inevitably came after every attack crashed over you and you would’ve fallen on your side had Cale not caught you. The worst of the attack was over and you let out a shuddering sigh as you slumped against his side. He pulled you closer and gently guided your head to rest against his shoulder, rubbing your shoulders as the remaining tremors in you died down.

“What caused it?” he asked after a while.

The aftermath of an attack always left you feeling boneless and liquefied. You glanced down at your fingers, the feeling of pins and needles running up and down your arms made you feel weightless and detached from reality. Something at the back of your mind warned you that it’s not over, that it’ll come back and you won’t be able to hold it back this time-

Cale’s grip tightened around you and you snapped out of the dangerous spiral, this time catching yourself before you could work yourself up again.

You closed your eyes and focused on Cale’s slow breathing beside you, anchoring yourself to his stabilising presence. Now that you’ve calmed down once, it was easier for you to recognise and compartmentalise the smaller panic attacks.

“I don’t know.” you rasped sluggishly, throat sore from choking hard on nothing.

That was just how it was, you could register and recognise all the symptoms of an oncoming attack but no amount of preparation or knowledge could guarantee you would be able to stave it off every time. If there was logic to it, you supposed it wouldn’t be called a disorder.

He nods and asked no further questions and you sit in companionable silence together until your head started drooping and you shivered from the chill that slowly crept up on you.

“Can you make it to the bed?” he asked softly as he squeezed your shoulders, gently massaging the stiff muscles.

You contemplated your physical condition, the exhaustion that weighed down your bones and shook your head lightly. Without hesitation, his strong arms came beneath your knees and behind your back as he picked you up from the ground, holding you close to his body so you could take advantage of his body heat.

Such a big attack doesn’t happen often, but when it does it always left you out of it for the rest of the day. It sucked and you could feel the apology weighing on the tip of your tongue but you leashed the demon back, knowing deep down, even if it doesn’t feel like it, that it’s not yours nor anyone’s fault.

“Thank you.” you said, despite what your demons wished and counted it as a small victory. He glanced down at you and sets you down on your bed before wrapping your blanket around you.

He sits on the bed and met your eyes. “You did great.”

A comment which made you chuckle lightly despite everything.

“Do you need anything?”

You tugged the blankets closer to your form, huddling in the warmth as the question turned in your mind. “I don’t know.” you swallowed thickly, looking down at your knees in shame. You’re just tired and aching, mentally and physically, it was hard to tell what could or couldn’t make you feel better at this moment.

“That’s okay.” His brown eyes were clear. “Is it alright if I stay here by your side?”

There was no expectations from him and you knew that at any time if you wanted time alone, he would immediately get up to give you space. You thought back to how he’d helped you calm down, how being taken care of this way didn’t feel so burdensome for once. Maybe you didn’t want company on most bad days but there can also be days where another’s companionship was enough. So as you gave your permission with a small nod, he seated himself next to you, leaning against the headboard as he stretched out his legs beside you.

You sit beside each other like this, each lost in your own thoughts, as you slowly felt your heartrate slow to a lethargic thud. At the back of your mind you knew you’ll have to unpack what happened today later. You should run through what had happened before the attack and hopefully figure out what triggered you, but for now, with his presence by your side, you allowed his soft rhythmic breathing to lull you to rest.

It’s okay.

Notes: This was written based on personal experience- though I have never been formally diagnosed, nor looked into it, honestly I’m not sure I can claim if what this piece was based on could be called anxiety/panic attack - so if there are misrepresentation, or discomfort due to this, please accept my apology here, as I wish not to offend anyone.

This piece came from a rather... interesting place. Since I’ve never looked too closely into why I feel this way when it happens, I’m not sure if people with anxiety goes through the same thing. What I do know is that the first time it happened to me it completely blindsided me, unfortunately I do not have a Cale by my side so let’s just say it was a struggle to handle things out on my own.

Ahem, not to bring the mood down here I just wanted to do an exploratory piece. Something more serious and slightly more gnarly. and here we are

On a completely irrelevant note, as I was trying to figure out what to title this piece, my brain for some reason came up with the brilliant idea to call it “asparagus” for some reason. Evidently, I did not listen to it. But it keeps looping in my head. So alt. title would be asparagus. I suppose..?

#tw: anxiety attack #tcf #trash of the count's family #imagines #tcf x reader #cale henituse #anxiety attack #panic attack #stress #comfort #i guess it's true what they say #that strong emotions really are a great source of motivation/inspiration for creatives #i was stuck on the toughest writers block on this once piece for months #but i wrote this one in half a day #funky moods amirite?

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